


The Calla Lily

by Ares00



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Crossdressing, Female Harry Potter, Oblivious Wizarding World, Slytherin Harry Potter, greek harry potter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:34:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23927683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ares00/pseuds/Ares00
Summary: Just to let my readers know, I despise fem!harry stories. By saying as much, if you haven’t already read the tags, you’ve probably realized that this is a fem!harry story.James had been absolutely unbearable, going on and on about how their son would be the best at quidditch and love to prank people and would be a heartbreaker when he grew up. There was only one problem with James’ aspirations for their child; quite simply, they did not know if the child was male or female yet, it was too early to tell, even for magic.They made a bet.If it was a boy, James would name him. If it was a girl, Lily would name her. The only stipulation was that they both follow the naming traditions of both their families.Of course, their bet didn’t stop James from telling his fellow Aurors about their soon to be son, Harry. It didn’t stop Sirius from finding it hilarious and doing the exact same thing. Lily had stopped correcting him at month five, and Peter seemed to think that her silence meant they had found out it was indeed a boy because he started to join in on calling her baby-bump ‘Harry.’By the time she had the baby, everyone would think it was a boy named Harry whether it was true or not!
Comments: 102
Kudos: 404





	1. Mistaken Assumptions

It had started with a bet.

James had been absolutely unbearable, going on and on about how their son would be the best at quidditch and love to prank people and would be a heartbreaker when he grew up. There was only one problem with James’ aspirations for their child; quite simply, they did not know if the child was male or female yet, it was too early to tell, even for magic.

Apparently, there hadn’t been a female-born Potter as far back as the Potter family was recorded. All the way to Linfred of Stinchcombe, the founding patriarch of the Potter family (and renowned inventor of Skele-gro and Pepper-up). James hadn’t had any doubt that he would have a son, so he hadn’t had any problem with the bet.

If it was a boy, James would name him. If it was a girl, Lily would name her. The only stipulation was that they both follow the naming traditions of both their families.

James chose the name Harry James Potter. Harry after his grandfather, Henry, and after Lily’s father Harold. In addition, many Potters had been named after English nobility. It was also traditional in wizarding society to include the parents name somewhere, which gave him the options of James, Jameson, Jamison, Iacobus, and Jacob.

Lily’s family always named girls after flowers. Her grandmother Rose had been so happy when Harold, Rose’s only son, had named his two daughters in the tradition. James had admitted that since the Potter family had never had any girls, they didn’t have any traditions for them, but naming their son after both their families by using Harry made her want to include something for him.

Lily chose Calla Iolanthe Potter. Calla was a type of Lily known to be much more delicate and meant ‘beautiful’ as a name. Iolanthe Potter nee Peverell was an ancestor of James’ and her name meant ‘violet or purple flower,’ which suited Lily’s purposes wonderfully.

Of course, their bet didn’t stop James from telling his fellow Aurors about their soon to be son, Harry. It didn’t stop Sirius from finding it hilarious and doing the exact same thing. Lily had stopped correcting him at month five, and Peter seemed to think that her silence meant they had found out it was indeed a boy because he started to join in on calling her baby-bump ‘Harry.'

Unfortunately, the only member of James’ little group that could talk him out of his childish displays was running back and forth between the werewolf clans, trying to talk them out of joining Voldemort from within. She hadn’t seen him since she announced her pregnancy.

Not that they weren’t doing plenty of running of their own. Going from safehouse to safehouse. They had gone into hiding shortly after her pregnancy began.

She didn’t get to see Remus again until the 29th of July. It was the day after the full-moon, and he looked gaunt, his smile strained. She pulled him into a gentle, smothering hug.

“We’re going under the Fidelus.” She whispered in his ear, knowing he would understand, and that James and Sirius wouldn’t approve.

Lily wasn’t blind to the looks Sirius and James had been sending Remus. They were worried his time among the werewolves had corrupted him; that Remus was the one passing information. They were wrong, she knew. Remus was the gentlest soul Lily had ever met.

She wouldn’t see him again.

* * *

Dear Petunia,

I’m really sorry about James, he can be very childish sometimes. I know we haven’t talked since your wedding, but I wanted to let you know I’m pregnant. You’re going to be an aunt, Tuney! We haven’t found out whether it’ll be a boy or girl yet, but I’m hoping for a girl.

James has been insistent that the Potters have never had a girl before, and I just want to prove him wrong. We’ve already picked out names. James wants Harry James Potter. Harry after our father. James can be sweet sometimes, but right now he’s being insufferable and keeps on calling my stomach ‘little Harry.’ It doesn’t help that he got his friends to join in, too.

I’m sure by the time I have this baby, everyone will think it’s named Harry whether it’s a boy or not!

My side of things is a bit hectic over here. You remember how it was getting tense those last few years at the express? It’s gotten worse, Tuney. James and I are going into hiding. We have to go under the defenses before the child is born in a few days, so I can’t guarantee any letters will even get through, but I wanted to let you know I love you Tuney, and when this is all over, I’d like you to meet your nephew or niece.

Lots of Love,

Lily

* * *

Petunia Dursley nee Evans,

It is with deep regret that I must inform you about the tragic passing of your sister and her husband. They were murdered by a dark wizard called Voldemort, in protection of their son, Harry, who I entrust to your care.

Lily Potter sacrificed her life for her son’s, which is how he is before you now, after facing the darkest wizard our world has ever seen.

While Lily’s protection has defeated him for now, Voldemort still has followers which would come after your family in revenge should they be able. The protection that Lily erected used her willing sacrifice and blood, blood which she shares with you as family. So long as Harry resides in your dwelling and calls your home, his home, Lily’s sacrifice protects your family. It becomes, therefore, necessary that you take Harry into your home and raise him, for your family’s protection as well as young Harry’s own. I implore you, do not let Lily’s death be in vain.

You once wrote to me asking to be part of your sisters’ world, and I refused you. This is your chance to care for Lily’s entire world.

Take care of her son as she would yours.

Regretfully,

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore

Petunia huffed, “I guess Lily didn’t have a girl as she wanted after all.”

The boy was quiet, staring at her with Lily’s eyes as she worked around the kitchen. Petunia had not bothered to unwrap the child from the tightly wound blanket, only setting the basket on the kitchen table, out of her way. Compared to her Dudders, the child was easily ignored, only making the occasional noise of discontent.

She thought she was taking her sister's death quite well. There was no love lost between them after all. Why should she care if her sister got herself blown up? Lily managed to land her with her no doubt freakish son… _who was still staring._

The eye-contact prompted the child to revamp its efforts in gaining her attention as he made slightly louder noises and squirmed about as much as he could, restricted as he was. Petunia decided she might as well figure out what it wanted before it started to cry in earnest and woke her Dudders.

It was still quite early in the morning, and it was so rare that her Dudders slept through the night.

She unwrapped the child to find that the problem was quite clearly his nappy. It hadn’t been changed in a while, if the stench was anything to go on.

What were those people thinking, leaving one of their freaks on a doorstep like the morning milk?

She gathered her nappy bag and then set about finding some of the nappies she had been gifted, only to find they were the wrong size for her Dudders. (He was a growing baby, didn’t they know!) She was glad she wouldn’t have to spend anything on the boy, though. She would just have to make sure he was toilet-trained before she ran out.

The child had stayed where she placed him on the mat, oddly still for a child. It was unnatural.

Touching him as little as possible, she removed his soiled nappy and cleaned up the mess that had been made from him being left to soak in his own filth. Having been cleaning the child on autopilot, it wasn’t until she was done that she realized something was wrong, and it set her into a fit of hysterical giggles, which turned into hysterical sobs, until she was crying her heart out, thankful that Vernon was not here to see her display.

“I guess Lily had a girl after all.”


	2. Ten Years

Ten years ago, there had been lots of pictures of what looked like a large pink beach ball wearing different-coloured bobble hats – but Dudley Dursley was no longer a baby, and now the photographs showed a large, blond boy riding his first bicycle, on a roundabout at the fair, playing a computer game with his father, being hugged and kissed by his mother. The room held no sign at all that another child lived in the house, too.

Yet there was indeed another child.

"Up! Get up! Now!" Aunt Petunias voice woke Harry from sleep. She rapped harshly on the door. "Up!" She punctuated the word with several more knocks in rapid succession.

Harry could hear footsteps heading toward the kitchen, light, but sharp _. She must have worn her heels today_ , Harry thought.

The detached feeling Harry had from a dream slipped away with full consciousness. The sound of a frying pan being placed on the cooker made a lingering 'Clang.' It was an extra-large one, Harry knew. The Dursleys only had full English breakfasts in the mornings and managed to eat as many as five servings per male Dursley. At dinner, there was almost always a full spread of stuffing and roasts and casseroles. There was only one small pan in the house, and it was in such good condition, Petunia could not bear to throw it away despite that it was never used.

The click-clack of Petunia's heels brought her outside the door again.

"Are you up yet?" Came the no-nonsense voice.

"Yes." Harry called back, having slept in day clothes the night before in preparation for today.

"Well, what are you waiting for, then. I need you to look after the bacon. And don't you dare let it burn, I want everything perfect on Duddy's birthday."

Harry wished the day were forgettable, but Dudley hadn't shut up about it for the past month. Primarily using it as a taunt for Harry, whose most recent gift was an old hanger and a pair of socks. Dudley couldn't comprehend that, once washed, the socks were quite warm, and useful for the winter months when Vernon saved money by turning the furnace off at night.

Harry ran dark olive hands through ebony locks of hair–there had been a spider in there on more than one occasion. The spiders liked it in the cupboard under the stairs, and Harry didn't mind sharing the room with the unobtrusive creatures.

Down the hall and into the kitchen, the kitchen table was covered with Dudley's presents, several were quite a bit larger than last years. It looked as though Dudley had got the new computer he wanted, not to mention the second television and the racing bike, which he would no-doubt break at the soonest opportunity.

Vernon had managed to instil a sense that physical possessions denoted superiority into Dudley from a young age, which was the only reason someone with as much bulk as Dudley would want such a nice racing bike. Dudley despised exercise unless it involved establishing physical superiority over others.

Dudley’s favorite target was Harry, but Dudley could rarely ever get what he wanted. Harry had always been fast.

It might have had something to do with living in a dark cupboard, but Harry had always been small and skinny compared to other children of the same age. Harry looked even smaller and skinnier because the only available clothes to wear were Dudley’s old cast-offs, and Dudley was at least four times larger than an average child their age.

Harry had a thin face, black hair, and bright-green eyes. Petunia had also found some old round glasses out of the donation bin at church when the teachers complained that Harry seemed to have trouble seeing the board. They were bulky and round and taped together with sellotape from how many times Dudley had broken them. There was also a very thin scar that rested just above where the glasses sat in the shape of a lightning bolt. The first question Harry had ever asked Aunt Petunia was about how the scar had got there.

“In the car crash where your parents died,” she had said. “And don’t ask questions.”

_Don’t ask questions_ – that was the first rule for a quiet life with the Dursleys, which made Harry think they didn’t want to be caught out in a lie. Their teacher always tried to catch the other children out of their lies by asking the same questions, just worded differently. Of course, they only ever asked Dudley what had happened when Harry was involved.

Uncle Vernon entered the kitchen as Harry was turning over the bacon.

“Comb your hair!” he barked, by way of morning greeting.

About once a week, Uncle Vernon looked over the top of his newspaper and shouted that Harry needed a haircut. Harry must have had more haircuts than all the kids in class put together, but it seemed to make no difference. No matter how many haircuts Aunt Petunia gave, Harry’s hair just grew that way – all over the place.

The eggs were frying by the time Dudley arrived in the kitchen with his mother. Dudley looked a lot like Uncle Vernon. He had a large, pink face, not much neck, small, watery blue eyes and thick, blond hair that lay smoothly on his thick, fat head. Aunt Petunia often said Dudley looked like a baby angel, and it was true that Dudley had never lost his baby fat or the pinkness in his cheek’s that cherubs were known for – at his age, though, the rosy cheeks and excess fat made him look much more like a pig wearing a wig.

Harry put the plates of eggs and bacon on the table, which was much more difficult with all the presents piled on top. Dudley, meanwhile, was counting his presents. His face fell.

“Thirty-six,” he said, looking up at his mother and father. “That’s two less than last year.”

“Darling, you haven’t counted Auntie Marge’s present, see, it’s here under this big one from mummy and daddy.”

“All right, thirty-seven then,” said Dudley, going red in the face. Harry, who could see a huge Dudley tantrum coming on, began wolfing down some bacon as fast as possible before Dudley turned the table over or Aunt Petunia started watching Harry again.

Aunt Petunia obviously scented danger too, because she said quickly, “And we’ll buy you another _two_ presents while we’re out today. How’s that, popkin? _Two_ more presents. Is that all right?”

Dudley thought for a moment. It looked like hard work. Finally, he said slowly, “So I’ll have thirty…thirty…”

“Thirty-nine, sweetums,” said Aunt Petunia.

“Oh,” Dudley sat down heavily and grabbed the nearest parcel. “All right then.”

Uncle Vernon chuckled.

“Little tyke wants his money’s worth, just like his father. Atta boy, Dudley!” He ruffled Dudley’s hair.

At that moment, the telephone rang, and Aunt Petunia went to answer it while Harry and Uncle Vernon watched Dudley unwrap the racing bike, a cine-camera, a remote-control aeroplane, sixteen new computer games, and a video recorder. He was ripping the paper off a gold wristwatch when Aunt Petunia came back from the telephone, looking both angry and worried.

“Bad news, Vernon,” she said. “Mrs. Figg’s broken her leg, she can’t take him.” She jerked her head in Harry’s direction.

Dudley’s mouth fell open in horror, but Harry’s heart gave a leap. Every year on Dudley’s birthday, his parents took him and a friend out for a day, to adventure parks, hamburger bars or the cinema. Every year, Harry was left behind with Mrs. Figg, a mad old lady who lived two streets away. Harry hated it there. The whole house smelled of cabbage and the only activity Mrs. Figg approved of was often looking through her albums of every cat she had ever owned.

“Now what?” asked Aunt Petunia, looking over furiously, as if this was Harry’s fault. It was hard to feel sorry for Mrs. Figg when Harry knew Tibbies, Snowy, Mr. Paws, and Tufty were all another year away.

“We could phone Marge,” Uncle Vernon suggested.

“Don’t be silly, Vernon, she hates the boy.”

The Dursleys often spoke about Harry like this, as though she was a boy. Aunt Petunia had once explained that her parents had only ever picked out a boy’s name, and she was stuck with it now that her parents were dead. She didn’t mind being known as a boy, though, she wasn’t quite sure what the difference was yet, anyway. Oddly enough, it was much more offensive that they spoke as if she wasn’t there – or rather, as if she was something that wasn’t capable of the thought needed to understand them.

“What about what’s-her-name, your friend – Yvonne?”

“On holiday in Majorca,” snapped Aunt Petunia. Uncle Vernon hadn’t noticed, but Harry had realized that Aunt Petunia had been dropping hints about wanting to go on holiday for several months now.

“You could just leave me here,” Harry put in hopefully. (She might be able to watch some television or look for non-perishable foodstuffs to keep hidden in her cupboard.)

Aunt Petunia looked as if she’d just swallowed a lemon.

“And come back and find the house in ruins,” she snarled.

“I won’t blow up the house,” said Harry, but they weren’t listening.

“I suppose we could take him to the zoo,” said Aunt Petunia slowly, “…and leave him in the car…”

“That car’s new, he’s not sitting in it alone…”

Dudley began to cry loudly. In truth, he wasn’t actually crying, it had been years since he’d really cried, but he knew that if he screwed up his face and wailed, his mother would give him anything he wanted.

“Dinky Duddydums, don’t cry, Mummy won’t let him spoil your special day!” she cried, flinging her arms around him.

“I…don’t…want…him…t-t-to come!” Dudley yelled between huge pretend sobs. “He always sp-spoils everything!” He shot Harry a nasty grin through the gap in his mother’s arms.

Just then, the doorbell rang – “Oh, Good Lord, they’re here!” said Aunt Petunia frantically – and a moment later, Dudley’s best friend, Piers Polkiss, walked in with his mother. Piers was a scrawny boy with a face like a rat. He was usually the one who held people’s arm behind their backs while Dudley hit them. Dudley stopped pretending to cry at once.

Half an hour later, Harry, who couldn’t believe her luck, was leaving Privet Drive for the first time in memory, on the way to the zoo for the first time. His aunt and uncle hadn’t been able to think of anything else to do with her, but before they’d left, uncle Vernon had taken Harry aside.

“I’m warning you,” he had said, putting his large purple face right up close to Harry’s, “I’m warning you now, boy – any funny business, anything at all – and you’ll be in that cupboard from now until Christmas.”

“I’m not going to do anything,” said Harry, “honestly…”

But Uncle Vernon didn’t believe her. No one ever did.

The problem was, strange things often happened around Harry, and it was just no good telling the Dursleys she didn’t make them happen.

Once, Aunt Petunia, tired of Harry coming back from the barber’s looking as though she hadn’t been at all, had taken a pair of kitchen scissors and cut her hair so short she was almost bald except for her fringe, which she had left ‘to hide that horrible scar.’ Dudley had laughed himself silly at Harry, who spent a sleepless night imagining school the next day, where she was already laughed at for her baggy clothes and Sellotaped glasses. The next morning, however, her hair was exactly as it was before Aunt Petunia had sheared it off. She had been given a week in her cupboard for this, even though she had been just as confused as they were and made no point of hiding it.

Another time, Aunt Petunia had been trying to force her into a revolting old jumper of Dudley’s (brown with orange bobbles. Harry swore these people were colorblind). The harder she tried to pull it over Harry’s head, the smaller it seemed to become, until finally it might have fit a glove puppet, but it certainly wouldn’t fit her. Aunt petunia decided it must have shrunk in the wash, and to Harry’s great relief, she wasn’t punished.

On the other hand, she’d gotten into terrible trouble for being found on the roof of the school kitchens. Dudley’s gang had been chasing her as usual when, as much to Harry’s surprise as anyone else’s, there she was, sitting on the chimney. The Dursleys had received a very angry letter from Harry’s headmistress telling them Harry had been climbing school buildings. Harry decided to stick to the story the headmistress had come up with because the alternative would make Uncle Vernon much angrier.

There was no stopping weird things from happening around her, and she knew she’d get blamed if any happened today. Right now though, the risk was worth it, even having to be with Dudley and Piers. She was going somewhere that wasn’t school, her cupboard, or Mrs. Figg’s.

She stayed quiet all throughout the ride, knowing the Dursleys much preferred her when they could forget about her. Especially when Uncle Vernon began to complain about motorbikes.

She often had dreams of flying in a motorbike, and she’d wanted one ever since. She knew her dream of a flying motorbike would be very much unappreciated by both Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon, who hated anything normal acting as it shouldn’t. Motorbikes especially, considering Uncle Vernon already hated them.

It was a very sunny Saturday, and the zoo was flooded with families. The Dursleys bought Dudley and Piers large chocolate ice-creams at the entrance and then, because the smiling lady in the van had asked Harry what she wanted before they could hurry her away, they bought her a cheap lemon ice lolly. It wasn’t bad, either, Harry thought, licking it as they watched a gorilla scratching its head and looking remarkably like Dudley, except that it wasn’t blond.

Harry had the best morning she’d had in a long time. She was careful to walk a little way apart from the Dursleys so that Dudley and Piers, who were starting to get bored with the animals by lunch-time, wouldn’t fall back on their favorite hobby of hitting him. They ate in the zoo restaurant and when Dudley had a tantrum because his knickerbocker glory wasn’t big enough, Uncle Vernon bought him another one, and Harry was allowed to finish the first.

Harry knew that it was all too good to last.

After lunch, they went to the reptile house. It was cool and dark in there, with lit windows all along the walls. Behind the glass, all sorts of lizards and snakes were crawling and slithering over bits of wood and stone. Dudley and piers wanted to see huge, venomous cobras and thick, man-crushing pythons. Dudley quickly found the largest snake in the place. It could have wrapped its body twice around uncle Vernon’s car and crushed it into a dust-bin – but at the moment, it didn’t look in the mood. In fact, it was fast asleep.

It was evident in the way it’s coils wrapped around to create a soft resting place for its head, and the stillness. She wondered if they could tell.

Dudley stood with his nose pressed against the glass, staring at the glistening brown coils.

“Make it move.” He whined at his father. Uncle Vernon tapped on the glass, but the snake didn’t budge.

“Do it again,” Dudley ordered. Uncle Vernon rapped the glass smartly with his knuckles, but the snake just snoozed on.

“This is boring,” Dudley moaned. He shuffled away.

Harry moved in front of the tank and looked intently at the snake. She wouldn’t be surprised if it had managed to die from sheer boredom itself – no company except stupid people drumming their fingers on the glass trying to disturb it all day long. It was worse than having a cupboard as a bedroom, where the only visitor was Aunt Petunia hammering on the door to wake you up – at least she could visit the rest of the house.

The snake suddenly raised it’s head, surveying her. Slowly, very slowly, it raised it’s head until it’s eyes were on level with Harry’s.

_It winked._ That shouldn’t be possible. Snakes didn’t have eyelids. She’d had to look up various snake fact when her Aunt had made her start gardening. She didn’t want to be bitten by a venomous snake.

Harry stared. Then she looked around to make sure nobody was watching. They weren’t. She looked back at the snake and winked back. Nothing normal ever happened to her.

The snake jerked it’s head toward Uncle Vernon and Dudley, then raised it’s eyes to the ceiling. It gave Harry a look that said quite plainly, _‘I get that all the time.’_

“I know,” Harry murmured through the glass, unsure of whether the snake could hear her, and unwilling to speak any louder for fear of the Dursleys hearing her. “It must be really annoying.”

The snake nodded vigorously. Well, that answered the question of whether it could hear her.

“Where are you from?”

The snake jabbed it’s tail at a little sign next to the glass. Harry peered at it.

_Boa Constrictor, Brazil_

Below it read

_This specimen was bred in the zoo_

“It’s too bad you’ve never seen where you were born. I haven’t either–”

A deafening shout behind Harry made them both jump. “DUDLEY! MR DURSLEY! COME AND LOOK AT THIS SNAKE! YOU WON’T _BELIEVE_ WHAT IT’S DOING!

Dudley came waddling towards them as fast as he could from the more colorful snake displays.

“Out of the way, you,” he said, punching Harry in the ribs. Caught by surprise, Harry fell hard on the concrete floor. What came next happened so quick no one saw how it happened – one second, Piers and Dudley were leaning right up close to the glass, the next, they had leapt back with howls of horror.

Harry sat up and gasped; the glass front of the boa constrictor’s tank had vanished. The great snake was uncoiling itself rapidly, slithering out onto the floor – people throughout the reptile house screamed and started running for the exits.

As the snake slid swiftly past her, Harry could have sworn a low, hissing voice said, “Brazil, here I come…Thanksss Amiga.”

The keeper of the reptile house was in shock.

“But the glass,” he kept saying, “Where did the glass go?”

The zoo director himself made aunt Petunia a cup of strong sweet tea while he apologized over and over again. Piers and Dudley could only gibber. As far as Harry had seen, the snake had only snapped playfully at their heels as it passed, but by the time they were back in the car, Dudley was telling them how it had nearly bitten of his leg, while Piers was swearing it had tried to squeeze him to death. But worst of all, for Harry at least, was Piers calming down enough to say, “Harry was talking to it, weren’t you, Harry?”

Uncle Vernon waited until Piers was safely out of the house before starting on Harry. He was so angry he could hardly speak. He managed to say, “Go – cupboard – stay – no meals,” before he collapsed into a chair and Aunt Petunia had to run and get him a large brandy.

Harry lay down in her dark cupboard much later, wishing she had a watch. She didn’t know what time it was and she couldn’t be sure the Dursleys were asleep yet. Until they were, she couldn’t risk sneaking to the kitchen for some food.

She’d lived with the Dursleys nearly ten years, ten miserable years, as long as she could remember, ever since she’d been a baby and her parents had died in that car crash. She couldn’t remember being in the car when her parents had died. Sometimes, when she strained her memory during long hours in her cupboard, she came up with a strange vision: a blinding flash of green light and a burning pain on her forehead. This, she supposed, was the car crash, though she couldn’t imagine where all the green light came from. She couldn’t remember her parents at all. Her aunt and uncle never spoke about them, and of course she was forbidden to ask questions. There were no photographs of them in the house.

When she had been younger, Harry had dreamed and dreamed of some unknown relation coming to take her away, but it had never happened: the Dursleys were her only family. Yet sometimes, she thought (or maybe hoped) that strangers in the street had seemed to know her. Very strange strangers they were, too. A tiny man in a violet top hat had bowed to her once while out shopping with Aunt Petunia and Dudley. After asking Harry furiously if she knew the man, Aunt Petunia had rushed them out of the shop without buying anything. A wild-looking old woman dressed all in green had waved merrily at her once on the bus. A bald man in a very long purple coat had actually shaken her hand in the street the other day and then walked away without a word. The weirdest thing about all these people was the way they seemed to vanish the second Harry tried to get a closer look.

At school, Harry had no one. Everybody knew that Dudley’s gang hated that odd Harry Potter in the baggy old clothes and with the broken glasses, and nobody liked to disagree with Dudley’s gang.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I based the first few pages off “The Vanishing Glass” chapter. I’d like to think that being forced to behave as a boy made Calla more observant of people than Harry in the series. Not every chapter will be based on the actual writing style of J.K. Rowling. This one was just to showcase the differences.
> 
> You may have also noticed that Calla is still called Harry. For those of you who did not realize, Lily’s letter didn’t include the prospective girl name, and Dumbledore still thought the Potter’s had a boy, so neither did his.
> 
> If we all look back to the fifth book, we will recall that Harry did not get a single letter, presumably because they could be traced or intercepted. I would assume that the same would be put into practice with Lily and James in hiding, meaning that Dumbledore could conceivably think that Calla was Harry.
> 
> As for the Dursleys treating Calla as a boy. It was more convenient for them. I imagine they never bothered renaming her because ‘if the freaks thought she was called Harry; she’d be called Harry’ or some other shit reasoning. Maybe they didn’t consciously decide to have her pass as a boy, but it brought them under less scrutiny if they had their nephew doing hard labour than their niece. Maybe a neighbour commented on how it must be so nice to have their nephew helping around the house. It was probably more believable that their nephew was a delinquent than their niece, so by the time she started school, they’d decided she’d pass for a boy.
> 
> I remember only having a vague sense of ‘boys have really short hair’ and ‘girls have longer hair’ until that one sex-ed class when I turned ten or eleven.


	3. Witchcraft and Wizardry

Harry had been in her cupboard until the summer holidays began, and even once she was let out, she had to spend most of her days wandering the neighborhood to escape Dudley's gang – Malcolm, Dennis, Piers, and Gordon.

The day after Dudley got his new uniform (a maroon tailcoat with orange knickerbockers and a flat straw hat called a boater) for the private school Uncle Vernon was sending him to, there was a horrible smell in the kitchen.

She didn’t bother asking was it was. It looked like a bit of Dudley’s old clothing in a grey-black solution. It wouldn’t be any worse than what she usually wore, she supposed. At least, not too much worse.

Dudley and Uncle Vernon walked in shortly after, both with their noses wrinkled at the smell.

“Get the post, Dudley.”

"Make Harry get it."

“Get the post, Harry.”

Harry quickly went to go get the post, knowing Dudley would just poke her with his new Smeltings stick if she argued.

Three things lay on the mat. A letter from Marge – who was vacationing in the Isle of Wight, a brown envelope that looked like a bill, and – _a letter for Harry._

Who would be writing to her? She had no friends, no other relatives – she didn’t belong to the library so she’d never even got notes asking for books back. Yet here was a letter, addressed so plainly there could be no mistake:

Mr H Potter

The Cupboard under the Stairs

4 Privet Drive

Little Whinging

Surrey

The envelope was thick and heavy, made of yellowish parchment, and the address was written in emerald-green ink. There was no stamp.

Turning the envelope over, her hand trembling, Harry saw a purple wax seal bearing a coat of arms; a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake surrounding a large letter H.

“Hurry up, boy!” shouted Uncle Vernon from the kitchen. “what are you doing, checking for letter-bombs?” He chuckled at his own joke.

Harry slid her letter underneath her cupboard door before re-entering the kitchen, Handing off the bill and postcard to uncle Vernon.

Exiting the house as she normally would to wander, she spotted a strange sight. There was an owl on the fence next to the mailbox. She dismissed the odd sight and went back to doing what she normally did. Trying to put all thoughts of the letter out of her head.

When Harry returned to the Dursley home, an hour before dinner to help with the prep work and side dishes for the large meal, she had managed to put all thoughts of the strange letter aside. For once, she was glad to be sent straight to her cupboard after cleaning the dinner dishes.

She pulled out the old flashlight she had managed to salvage from Dudley’s second bedroom and a few of her precious batteries.

The Dursley’s house had four bedrooms: one for Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia, one for visitors (usually Uncle Vernon’s sister, Marge), one where Dudley slept, and one where Dudley kept all the toys and things that wouldn’t fit into his first bedroom.

She broke the seal of the contraband letter before carefully pulling out the contents. The inner paper was also on yellowish parchment, but the writing was black. At the very top, it began:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore

(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Mr Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.

Yours Sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress

Strange things always seemed to happen around and to Harry. Was it magic? She had always felt as if the Dursleys knew something she did not. The way they blamed her for things that she should rightfully have no control over.

She glanced at the second sheet. She hadn’t even heard of some of these things!

This was much too elaborate to be a prank, at least by the Dursleys. There was even an owl at the mailbox! Should she write back? Yes, she was far to curious to not see if this might be _real._

Harry pulled out a sheaf of papers from under the camp-bed she slept on. The school never minded when she took a sheet extra, and it had stacked up. She normally used it for drawing, but Harry could spare a sheet for a return letter.

Who had written the letter, again? She looked back at the name, _Minerva McGonagall_.

Dear Mrs McGonagall,

While I’d like to accept my place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, I must admit that I do not know how to collect the necessary books and equipment, nor do I know where this school is located or how to get there.

I must admit, I would also quite prefer some proof that a school of witchcraft and wizardry even exists at this point.

Yours Sincerely,

H. Potter

When Harry heard the click of the lock on her cupboard, she knew the Dursleys were going to sleep for the night. She waited an additional long while before pulling out the wire hanger she’d been gifted for her birthday last year.

Harry slid the now oddly shaped metal end out of the vent in her cupboard door. She couldn’t see what she was doing, but the sound of metal on metal told her she had found the sliding latch. It took a few tries, but she managed to get the lock undone.

To think Dudley thought her gifts were useless.

Letter in hand, she made her way to the kitchen (the sliding door to the back porch made much less noise) and out the door. She circled back to the front of the house, avoiding the master bedroom windows to find the owl just where it had been that morning.

It was cute, with a heart-shaped face and a fluffy looking speckled chest. “Hello, you.” She cooed at it. “Did you wait for a reply?” She asked and felt much less stupid when the owl nodded. Maybe it could understand her as the snake had.

“Do I need a string, because I can run back inside for–” The owl fluttered forward and gently grabbed the proffered paper in its beak. “Oh, you’re such a smart owl, aren’t you?” She cooed at it again. “Can you take that to the Deputy Headmaster, Mrs. McGonagall for me?” The owl gave another nod of its head and took flight.

Still not the weirdest thing that’s happened to her. She shrugged and made her way back inside, being just as careful. She stopped by the kitchen to grab a granola bar and a bag of crisps before going back to her cupboard and beginning the painstaking process of locking herself back in.


	4. Minerva McGonagall

The granola bar and crisps' missing status went unnoticed, as Dudley grabbed snacks often enough that it was impossible for Aunt Petunia to keep count. It was a Wednesday, Harry could tell. Aunt Petunia went to her book club on Wednesdays, which was really just an excuse for the neighborhood ladies to gossip. It was the only time Aunt Petunia left Harry alone in the house. (Dudley always made plans with Piers on Wednesdays because Piers' mother made a chocolate cake that was so good, Dudley didn't complain about only getting one slice for fear he wouldn't be invited back the next week.)

Harry knew she was only trusted because Aunt Petunia left a list of chores to keep her busy and was only three doors down in Mrs. No. 10's house. After the breakfast dishes, she was to sweep the kitchen, hoover the dining room and lounge, and if she had time left over, pull weeds in the garden. When Aunt Petunia got home, she would check Harry's progress and hand over a new list, cleaning the bathrooms, washing and folding the laundry, and picking up Dudley's room was usually Wednesday's chores.

Wednesday was the only time Harry had indoor chores other than cooking because Dudley was sure to be out of the house. She had outdoor chores when the Dursleys needed something done, were being particularly vindictive, or thought she was loitering in the house (She'd painted the fence once when it was peeling, once when Aunt Petunia didn't like the color and handed Harry the same bucket of paint she had used the first time, and once when Uncle Vernon ran into her before she could leave the house.)

She jumped when someone knocked on the front door as she was hoovering the entryway. Harry knew she couldn't just ignore them. They could hear the hoover, and Aunt Petunia would be awful cross with her for ignoring a guest when they knew someone was home – if they couldn't tell if anyone is home was a different story.

Harry turned off the hoover and set it aside before cautiously approaching the front door.

It couldn't be any friends of Aunt Petunia; all of her friends attended the book club with her. And anyone who knew Uncle Vernon knew he worked Monday-Friday from 9am to 5pm for the last twenty years at least. It could be a friend of Dudley’s, Harry supposed, but Dennis, Malcolm and Gordan all had parents who liked to call ahead before sending their kids over.

Stood on the Dursleys stoop was not anyone who the Dursleys would ever consort with. A tall, black-haired woman in emerald-green robes – like a judge would wear. Her high collar was pinned with a beautiful circular blue and amber clasp. She had a very stern face, and Harry’s first thought was that this was not someone to cross.

“Mr Potter, I presume.”

“Yes, Ma’am. Are you a representative from the school?”

“You wrote your acceptance letter to me, Mr. Potter. My name is Minerva McGonagall. I’ll be your professor come September.”

“Professor McGonagall, then. Please come in. Would you like some tea? The Dursleys are out right now, but my Aunt Petunia should be home from her book club shortly.” While she had sent the letter without his aunts’ knowledge, Harry knew it would be impossible to attend any school other than the local comprehensive school without permission.

She couldn’t run away. She had nowhere else to go.

Harry was quite glad, however, that this meeting would be happening without the influence of the male Dursleys.

She led Professor McGonagall down the hall to the lounge, into the chair normally reserved for Aunt Petunia, but as a single seater, was much more practical for the visiting guest who might be uncomfortable sitting next to a stranger.

Professor McGonagall hadn’t answered whether she wanted tea, but she was looking a bit shell shocked. Was she expecting a child with Dudley’s manners? Dudley had to be coached and bribed to greet Uncle Vernon’s dinner guests. Harry knew Aunt Petunia would want tea for this conversation, so she excused herself to put the kettle on and ready the tea-tray.

She filled the small pourer with milk and a touch of heavy cream and added a few sugar cubes to the sugar pot. Harry grabbed three of Aunt Petunia’s guest teacups and their matching saucers as well as the small tea strainer.

She pulled the tea leaves out of the pantry before pouring the now ready water into the teapot. Black tea steeped best at just below boiling, so she only waited a few seconds before portioning out the leaves – a scoop for each cup and one more.

Harry glanced at the clock on the fireplace mantle as she reentered the lounge with the tea-tray – Aunt Petunia should arrive just as the tea finished steeping if she stuck to her schedule.

“Mr Potter, I’m here about the letter you sent.”

Harry nodded, understanding where she was coming from – she wasn’t here for tea. “While I would very much like to know where to get my schoolbooks, and how to get to school, I’m afraid it’s moot point if my aunt doesn’t agree.” She gave a wry smile. “Witchcraft and Wizardry sound like the type of things she won’t approve of, so while I was hopeful to be able to attend your school, after thinking about it, I realized that I had not asked permission to attend Hogwarts over the institution my guardians have already applied me for.” Harry used every bit of polite formal language she’d gleaned over the years. It helped that she was never around children her own age, and the adults forgot she was there while they spoke. The public library was also one of the few places Harry could wander without fear of Dudley finding her.

“You’ve been down to attend Hogwarts since you were born!” Professor McGonagall blustered, oddly defensive at the possibility of Harry not attending.

Harry hid her surprise at the new information. “While my parents may have enrolled me in Hogwarts, they are not my guardians right now, and I do not live with them. I need permission before I can attend Hogwarts.” She repeated more plainly.

They stared at each other in silence until Harry noticed it was approaching five minutes on the tea. She set up a cup for McGonagall and strained the tea into the cup. “Milk or sugar?”

“Just a splash of milk.” Harry handed her the hot tea before pouring a cup for herself (two sugars and a drop of milk) and a cup for Aunt Petunia (one sugar and a generous amount of milk.)

Harry could hear the front door opening, so she called out, “Aunt Petunia, we have company.” Harry lifted her cup to Professor McGonagall as if to say, ‘ _Your move._ ’

Harry told herself she’d be fine if Aunt Petunia couldn’t be convinced to send her, but she didn’t feel that Professor McGonagall would back down for some reason.

Aunt Petunia’s heels click-clacked as she hurried into the lounge, she was wearing a floral blouse and long, black pencil-skirt. Her heels matched the creamy-pink flowers on her blouse.

Her thin face was scrunched in distaste as she demanded, “What is one of your kind doing here?”

Harry watched Aunt Petunia’s expression and how it had morphed to disgust. She had known the Dursley’s knew something.

“Aunt Petunia,” Harry interjected, halting the rant she could see gearing up – she had been on the receiving end of enough of them – Aunt Petunia had to be calm during this discussion. “You’re just in time for tea.” Harry offered up the saucer and cup, prompting her Aunt to move closer to accept. “Professor McGonagall is here to discuss my schooling with my guardian.”

Harry watched Aunt Petunia take a fortifying drink of tea, prepared to her exacting standards, and take a breath.

“What do you want?”

Harry decided she’d risked her neck enough by offering tea and decided to stay silent. It was much easier to watch, she realized, than it was to participate. Dudley was thoughtless in what he would say, even when he thought of a good insult, he had to take time to understand a comeback. It may take all her energy to keep up, but she would not become thoughtless like that.

“Harry Potter has been down to attend Hogwarts since he was born.” Professor McGonagall told Aunt Petunia in a no-nonsense tone. “He will be attending with or without your permission.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. It was always worse when someone spoke as if you were not in the same room and as if you had no choice in the matter; she was used to it from the Dursley’s but a professor from a school interested in her attendance? Despite Harry’s conviction to remain silent, her anger bubbled over it. She hardly managed to keep her tone level as she interjected, “And if Harry Potter doesn’t want to attend?”

“As a young wizard who has not yet passed his standardized testing, you would be required to attend a magical school – which would require living within the schools district – or being homeschooled by an approved magical tutor. Hogwarts’ district includes the entirety of the United Kingdom. The closest alternative wizarding district is in France.”

Aunt Petunia pursed her lips while Harry bit the inside of her cheek. Even if she hadn’t wanted to go, she wouldn’t be receiving a choice. She could tell Aunt Petunia was going over the positives and negatives. It was no problem guessing which option she would choose.

“He can go,” She relented. The Dursleys had often had an, ‘out of sight, out of mind,’ mindset when it came to Harry, and the lure of her being gone several months of the year at a boarding school was much more alluring than hiring a tutor and keeping Harry home.

A short time later – after a tense silence that lasted until they’d finished their tea – McGonagall excused them both and explained that she would be taking Harry to get her school supplies.

Her stomach dropped. She didn’t have any money. And the Dursley’s certainly weren’t paying for her schooling. The feeling eased slightly when Professor McGonagall said they would be on their way without asking for any money. She did not seem like a woman liable to forget such an important thing.

“Now, Mr. Potter, the transportation we will be using is called Apparition,” Professor McGonagall lectured, “It will feel similar to being pulled through a tube, and you may feel nauseous when we arrive. It is, however, instantaneous.”

Harry quite felt like she was being treated to the short version of the explanation, whether on account of her age, or time restrictions, or maybe a little bit of both, was unknown.

“Grab ahold of my arm and hold on tight.” Harry did not hesitate to take Professor McGonagall’s proffered arm.

And then they were spinning away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pronunciation notes on Calla Iolanthe:  
> Kah-la Eye-oh-lan-thee
> 
> Comments and Kudos appreciated. :)


	5. Diagon Alley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who Bookmarked, Kudosed, and Subscribed!

After Harry's vision finished spinning – she managed not to be sick all over herself, but there were little black dots all over the edge of her vision – she found they were now in a different location. It wasn't that she hadn't believed Professor McGonagall, but it was just so impossible! As impossible as turning her teacher’s hair blue and shrinking an ugly sweater and appearing on the school roof and her hair staying the same no matter how many haircuts she had.

They were in a small, walled courtyard, where there was nothing but a dustbin and a few weeds. She could see a small doorway that led into what appeared to be a pub, but Professor McGonagall didn't walk to the door, but to the brick wall with the dustbin. “Come along, Mr. Potter.” She pulled a stick of wood out of her sleeve and tapped the wall three times.

The brick she had touched quivered – it wriggled – in the middle, a small hole appeared - it grew wider and wider - a second later, they were facing an archway large enough for someone much taller than Professor McGonagall, an archway on to a cobbled street which twisted and turned out of sight.

Harry twisted around, unable to believe this was on the other side of that little courtyard, only to see the entrance they’d just walked through shrink back into a solid wall.

The sun shone brightly on a stack of cauldrons outside the nearest shop. _Cauldrons – All Sizes – Copper, Brass, Pewter, Silver – Self-Stirring – Collapsible_ said a sign hanging over them.

She turned her head in every direction as she wished to go slower and take it all in, but Professor McGonagall had set a brisk pace towards a tall, snowy-white building that simply _towered_ over everything else. Its large, burnished bronze doors were flanked by guards in scarlet and gold uniforms.

Upon closer inspection, she realized the guards were a head shorter than her, and… she had to physically stop herself from reacting. Magic, she reminded herself firmly.

“This,” Harry turned her attention away from the proud, columned building and its unusual denizens to the lecturing Professor. “Is Gringotts, the wizarding bank. Owned by goblins, it sits above the goblin nation as a bank, and is the only bank of the wizarding world.”

The now termed goblin-guard had a swarthy, clever face, a pointed beard, and, Harry noticed, very long fingers and feet. He bowed as they passed. There was a second set of doors, this time silver, and engraved with a challenge.

_Enter stranger, but take heed_

_Of what awaits the sin of greed,_

_For those who take but do not earn,_

_Must pay most dearly in their turn,_

_So if you seek beneath our floors_

_A treasure that was never yours,_

_Thief, you have been warned, beware,_

_Of finding more than treasure there._

A pair of goblins bowed them through the silver doors and into a vast marble hall. About a hundred more goblins were sitting on high stools behind a long counter, scribbling in large ledgers, weighing coins on brass scales. Examining precious stones through eyeglasses. There were too many doors to count leading off the hall, and yet more goblins were showing people in and out of these. Professor McGonagall and Harry made for the counter.

“Mr. Harry Potter would like to make a withdrawal from his vault.” She stated, wasting no time on pleasantries. The goblin hooked his long fingers on the edge of the counter, his talons clacking ominously.

“You have Harry Potter’s key, madam?

Harry felt a bolt of panic as Professor McGonagall looked at her expectantly. “I’ve never had a key, Professor. I was left on my aunt’s doorstep with nothing save a note.” The Professor’s eyes raised in surprise before dawning understanding seemed to hit her.

The professor was stunned speechless, but the goblin merely scowled before continuing as if nothing was out of the ordinary. “We’ll reissue a key after verifying your identity.” The goblin said dismissively. “Griphook will show you to your vault. Griphook!”

Griphook was another goblin, and Harry followed Griphook towards one of the many doors that lead from the hall. Harry was sure she and Professor McGonagall looked just as indistinguishable as she had thought all the other goblins and customers were when she entered. The thought was calming.

Griphook held the door open for them. Harry, who had expected more marble, was mildly surprised. They were in a narrow stone passageway lit with flaming torches. It sloped steeply downwards and there were little railway tracks on the floor. Griphook whistled and a small railcar came hurtling up the tracks towards them. They climbed in and were off.

At first, they just hurtled through a maze of passageways. Harry realized they must do this to make it difficult to map a specific path to any vault – even her own. They likely changed paths every time a customer went down. The rattling cart seemed to know it’s own way, because Griphook certainly wasn’t steering.

Harry’s eyes stung at the cold, but she kept them wide open. She’d never had such an exhilarating feeling before. They plunged even deeper – this time with a sense of direction – passing an underground lake where huge stalactites and stalagmites grew from the ceiling and floor.

“I never know,” Harry called to the professor over the noise of the cart, “What’s the difference between a stalagmite and a stalactite?”

She looked oddly pleased at Harry’s question, maybe it was the professor in her. “A stalactite holds tight to the ceiling.” The simple mnemonic was quite easy, and she wished her teachers had thought to make it that simple.

When the cart stopped at last beside a small door in the passage wall, Harry was quite disappointed in the end of the ride. Griphook gestured for Harry to step out of the cart and towards the vault door. He held out a long-fingered hand and she easily put her own hand in his. It was as weathered as she expected it to feel, like paper that had gotten wet and dried in the sun.

Griphook turned her hand over and pulled a needle-thin blade out of seemingly nowhere, hesitating just above her exposed ring finger to glance at her.

She nodded.

Harry watched as Griphook pricked her finger and a ruby-red bead of blood swelled into a perfect drop. She stared at it until Griphook moved her hand to smear the blood on the keyhole. She could hear loud, metal clicking – like extra-large sized tumblers in a lock shifting – before the door swung open.

Billowing green smoke came out of the entrance, and as it cleared, Harry had to stifle a gasp. Inside were mounds of gold coins. Columns of silver. Heaps of little bronze ones.

This was all Harry’s? It was incredible! The Dursleys couldn’t have known about all this, if they had, they’d have had it from her faster than blinking. They’d often complained about how much it cost them to keep. (Harry was sure if she had actually cost them anything, she’d be out the door without a thought to anything else)

Harry was suddenly struck with the thought of the Dursleys trying this very thing and recalled exactly how she had gotten into the vault. “What would happen if someone else tried doing that?”

Griphook smiled rather nastily. “They’d be sucked through the door and trapped in there.”

“How often do you check to see if someone’s inside?”

“About once every ten years.” He told her, his grin sharpening.

Harry found herself quite relieved at this, which she thought startled Griphook a little bit. She smiled at him. “Do you provide bags to collect the coins, or was I supposed to bring my own?” She asked, bolstered by the fact that no one had glared at her for her questions yet.

“Gringotts can provide an expanded pouch for seven Sickles.” At her blank look, he elaborated – she’d quite perfected that look for Aunt Petunia. “Sickles are silver, Galleons are gold, Knuts are bronze. There are seventeen silver Sickles to a Galleon and twenty-nine bronze Knuts to a sickle. The going rate of Galleons to Pounds tends to hover around one gold Galleon to every five pounds.”

Harry quickly calculated. A Sickle was enough to cover about a pint of milk at the grocers and a Knut was almost exactly a penny. Harry could buy a pair of jeans and a shirt for a Galleon.

“I’ll take the pouch. Do you deduct it directly from the vault?” She asked.

“It will be automatically deducted,” Griphook replied as he handed over a black, leather looking pouch. It looked hardly large enough to fit even ten of the large shiny Galleons, but she diligently piled Galleons into the pouch, surprised but gleeful when dozens and dozens of coins easily slid into the sleek pouch. She added several Sickles and Knuts to the top so she wouldn’t be paying for small purchases with the obviously shiny Galleons.

One wild cart ride later and a notice that they would send an owl when her new key was ready and they stood blinking in the sunlight outside of Gringotts. Harry didn’t know what to buy first now that she had money – maybe fitting clothes?

She turned to Professor McGonagall to ask where they should go to see her looking at a rather plain silver pocket watch with an unhappy expression.

Harry wondered if the visit with Aunt Petunia and trip to Gringotts took longer than she expected it to. Maybe she had thought Harry would have a guardian coming with her, so she only expected to need the time to go to Gringotts.

“You don’t have to stay if you’ve got somewhere more important to be, Professor. I’ve done the shopping before, so I’d be quite comfortable on my own.” Not explicitly true, but she’d rather not be a burden on the Professor.

“Nonsense,” She shook her head, “I couldn’t leave an eleven-year-old on his own!”

“But you look like you have somewhere to be!” Harry protested. “Maybe you could take me back to the Dursley’s and we could go shopping another day?”

“I’m afraid this was my only free period before term starts.” She shot down Harry’s idea.

“Maybe you could send someone else?”

Professor McGonagall’s lips pursed, and she seemed conflicted for a moment before something caught her eye. “Miss Farley!” – Correction – some _one_.

Miss Farley had reddish-brown hair and striking blue eyes. She was wearing robes like many of the people around them, but hers had a quality that was visible even to Harry and were a very complimentary shade of pale blue.

“Twenty points to Slytherin for the start of the new school year if you take this student to get his school supplies.” She offered. Harry’s head hurt. What was a Slytherin?

Harry saw Miss Farley give her a once over, likely taking stock of the overly large hand-me-downs and the broken glasses. “Forty points.” Miss Farley countered. “I’ve got my own things to attend to today and the school year hasn’t started yet.”

Professor McGonagall gave a brisk nod. “Agreed.” She said before opening the pocket watch again. She turned to Harry, “Now, Mister Potter,” Harry saw Miss Farley tense over the Professors shoulder. “Miss Farley will show you around to get your supplies, she is one of your upperclassmen at Hogwarts.”

Professor McGonagall wasted no more time before she briskly strode away. Harry looked up at Miss Farley through her lashes, her hands clasped behind her back. “Hello, Miss.” She said shyly.

Harry had never had the chance to talk to someone other than her teachers and the Dursleys. Even when they had group projects in school, her groupmates mainly ignored her. She panicked. How did you talk to other people?

“My name is Gemma Farley, I’m one of the prefects for Slytherin house in Hogwarts,” she introduced.

“I’m Harry.” She told Miss Farley. “What’s Slytherin house? And what’s a prefect?” Harry had many years to perfect watching people – she had to know what the Dursleys were thinking to avoid their moods – so she could see the carefully hidden surprise and thoughtful expression. Harry got the feeling that she normally hid her expressions much better but was underestimating her because she was young.

“Hogwarts sorts students when they arrive by their values when they arrive for their first year. Those who value bravery and chivalry go to Gryffindor, the house of the daring. Those who value justice and hard-work go to Hufflepuff, the house of the loyal. Those who value learning and wit go to Ravenclaw, the house of the clever. Finally, those who value ambition and cunning are sorted into Slytherin, the house of the astute.

“Prefects are students from each house who have been given extra responsibility and authority to supervise and discipline other students and keep them in line when there aren’t any professors around. At the beginning of the year, we’re tasked with introducing the new first years to their house.”

“Oh,” Harry said. No wonder the professor had trusted her enough to show her to get school supplies. “Thank you for agreeing to help me get my school supplies. I’m not sure I’d know where to go to find all this stuff.”

“You have your list?”

Harry pulled out the list that came with her letter that read:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY

Uniform

_First-year students will require:_

  1. _Three sets of plain work robes (black)_
  2. _One plain pointed hat (black)for day wear_
  3. _One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)_
  4. _One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings)_



_Please note that all pupils’ clothes should carry name tags_

Set Books

_All students should have a copy of each of the following:_

The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by _Miranda Goshawk_

A History of Magic by _Bathilda Bagshot_

Magical Theory by _Adalbert Waffling_

A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration by _Emeric Switch_

One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by _Phyllida Spore_

Magical Drafts and Potions by _Arsenic Jigger\_

Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by _Newt Scamander_

The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by _Quentin Trimble_

Other Equipment

_1 Wand_

_1 Caldron (pewter, standard size 2)_

_1 set glass or crystal phials_

_1 telescope_

_1 set brass scales_

_Students may also bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad_

_PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST-YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS_

A smooth voice sounded behind Harry, “Hmm, looks like a uniform is first on the list.” Harry didn’t flinch, she didn't. She might've jerked a little, but she didn't cringe away, and she had had her face schooled. It was probably saying something to the observant eyes of Miss Farley, but she couldn’t really stop it. “Hello, Gemma. Who’s this tiny thing?”

“Marcus, this is Harry. McGonagall is giving Slytherin an advance forty points for helping him get his school supplies.”

“McGonagall? Where are his parents?”

“Dead.” Was Harry’s deadpan reply, unhappy with the conversation over her head. Marcus had yet to move from over her shoulder.

“Guardians?” Her eyes hardened but stayed locked ahead, not acknowledging Marcus’ presence.

“Wish I was dead.”

“Harsh.” Harry finally felt him move away.

“Well, if we’re grabbing a uniform, we’ve got to go to Malkins, she’s the only one with a license to make Hogwarts robes, but if you’ve got the money, Twilfitt and Tattings are the best for quality casual wear, gloves, boots, and dress wear.”

Harry finally turned to look at Marcus. “We?” Harry questioned, looking up to the quite tall height of the black-haired teen. He had a very large presence, with broad shoulders and enough muscle to pass as one of those bodyguards on the telly.

“Of course. Couldn’t let my fellow fifth-year prefect escort a first-year alone, now could I?”

Harry briefly wondered how prefects were chosen if this Marcus fellow had become one before she was being escorted into a shop reading _Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions_.

Madam Malkin was a squat, smiling witch dressed all in mauve.

“Hogwarts, dear?” she said when Harry started to speak. “Got the lot here – another young man being fitted up just now, in fact.”

In the back of the shop, a boy with a shade of skin several shades darker than Harry’s own was standing on a footstool while a second witch pinned up his long, black robes. Madam Malkin stood Harry on a stool next to him, slipped a long robe over her head and began to pin it to the right length.

Marcus stepped up next to her and instructed Madam Malkin, “Just the required three black work robes and the hat, madam.”

Madam Malkin gave a stiff nod back and kept her eyes lowered. The rest of the fitting went by in the tense silence, Marcus watching diligently until she told Harry she was done. She gratefully hopped off the stool and followed Marcus out after paying. Miss Farley was waiting outside the shop, seemingly enjoying the air, but fell into line as Marcus led them to Twilfitt and Tattings.

It very obviously catered to the upper-class and Harry’s thought circled back to Marcus and Miss Farley being quite rich. Witches immediately attended to Marcus without having to approach anyone, and Harry thought this spoke well of the customer service offered compared to Madam Malkins which had had bits of cloth strewn everywhere and not enough help for the obviously busy season.

Marcus ordered her measurements to be taken, which had the witches concealing distaste at Dudley’s old clothing. She didn’t blame them – she had to conceal distaste for the overly large garments as well.

Once her measurements were taken, she, Marcus, and Miss Farley were led over to a series of animated mannequins displaying various articles of clothing. Harry grabbed a warm looking winter cloak, lined with the softest fur Harry had ever felt and Miss Farley had made a noise of approval when Harry picked it up. The gloves she grabbed were very soft on the inside and easy to move and the shopkeeper said they were lined with runes to keep the wearer's hands the perfect temperature.

Marcus had taken pity on her when she was staring blankly at the casual wear and told the attendant she wanted a full wardrobe of casual with a variety of styles and colors for her to try.

They bought Harry’s books in a shop called _Flourish and Blotts_ after visiting _Scribbulus Writing Implements_ for a variety of parchment, inks, and quills. The shelves were stocked to the ceiling with books as large as paving stones bound in leather; books the size of postage stamps in covers of silk; books full of peculiar symbols and a few books with nothing at all that Miss Farley kindly explained were linking journals.

After buying the booklist and a few books that Miss Farley recommended, they went to _Wiseacres Wizarding Equipment_ where she bought a trunk with two compartments and was password locked with a featherlight charm.

Marcus helped her put her new telescope and brass scales and cauldron and phials away in the trunk as she stared amazed that they could fit through the trunks opening.

She noticed he always looked at her oddly whenever she was amazed by magic or asked Miss Farley what a muggle was, (non-magic person) but after Marcus sent a look to Miss Farley, stopped.

The apothecary was fascinating enough to make up for the horrible smell, a mixture of bad eggs and rotten cabbages. Barrels of slimy stuff stood on the floor, jars of herbs, dried roots and bright powders lined the walls, bundles of feathers, strings of fangs and snarled claws hung from the ceiling.

Miss Farley explained that she should never get the standard set of ingredients the shop offered because you never know how long ago they were made up. She walked Harry through telling how good an ingredient was based on color, smell, and feel even when Harry got distracted by the silver unicorn horns at twenty-one galleons each and minuscule glittery black beetle eyes (five Knuts a scoop).

“Just Ollivanders left.” Marcus mused.

Harry assumed Ollivanders must be the wandmaker because a wand was the only thing she didn’t have yet. This was what she was really looking forward to.

A tinkling bell rang somewhere in the depths of the shop as they stepped inside. It was a tiny place, empty except for a single spindly chair. The very dust and silence in here seemed to tingle with some secret magic as Harry looked over the many narrow boxes piled neatly all the way to the ceiling.

“Good afternoon,” Said a soft voice.

An old man was standing before them, his wide, pale eyes shining like moons through the gloom of the shop.

“Hello.”

“Ah, yes,” Said the man. “Yes, yes, I thought I’d be seeing you soon. Harry Potter.” It wasn’t a question.

Marcus’ hand, which had been resting on Harry’s thin shoulder, gave him away. Something about Harry’s name had upset him. The same way Miss Farley had acted odd when Professor McGonagall called her Mr. Potter.

“You have you mothers eyes.” Harry wouldn’t know, she had never seen a picture of her mother before. She hoped it wasn’t just a platitude. “It seems just yesterday that she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work.”

Mr. Ollivander moved closer to Harry. Harry wished he would blink. Those silvery eyes were unnerving.

“Your father, on the other hand, favored a mahogany wand, Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more powerful and excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your father favored it – it’s really the wand that chooses the wizard of course.”

Mr. Ollivander had come so close that he and Harry were almost nose-to-nose. She could see herself reflected in those misty eyes.

“And that’s where…” Before Harry knew it, Marcus was standing in front of her and Mr. Ollivanders hand had been slapped away.

“That’s enough.” He coldly told the wandmaker. “Fit him for a wand or we will take our business elsewhere.” Harry thought he was quite cool, and in that moment, was quite glad he had invited himself along.

Ollivander kept his hands to himself for the rest of the visit, and though it took a while, Harry left the shop happy with her first wand; eleven inches, holly, with phoenix feather core.

The late-afternoon sun hung low in the sky when Marcus and Miss Farley asked her if she wouldn’t mind a bite to eat. Harry hadn’t eaten all day. Harry pretended to ignore the looks that Marcus and Miss Farley shared over her head at her ready agreement.


	6. Platform Nine and Three Quarters

Miss Farley took them to a pleasant little place near Twilfitt and Tattings, apparently on an offshoot alley called Vertic Alley, which was home to the upper-class shops and tea rooms.

They served quiches and bakes and those little finger sandwiches Aunt Petunia always served when she had guests over for tea. Harry got potato leek soup with a slice of quiche. She only managed to finish the quiche, but the shop kindly gave her a takeaway bowl, spelled with a preservation charm that advertised a week of freshness (as if you’ve never left the shop!)

There wasn’t any speaking during the meal, of which Harry was grateful for, she didn’t think she could put down her cutlery if she tried. It was the best food she had ever had. It was served with two savory scones which she discretely wrapped in her napkin and pocketed.

Harry knew she should be heading back to the Dursley home once she finished eating, and there was a pit in her stomach that just grew and grew the longer she delayed. She had more fun today than she had ever had before. Even if it was only getting her school supplies, even if Miss Farley and Marcus were technically being bribed to do so. Even then, she had never before been so very _free_.

And the moment she was back, she _knew_ , that feeling of being _free_ would be exchanged for a cage. The Dursleys may have to let her go to Hogwarts, but that wouldn’t stop them from punishing her for something she couldn’t control.

Before she knew it, they were walking back out of the pleasant little eatery. “Did you need any help getting back?” Marcus asked her, and she was about to say no, not wanting to bother the nice prefect after she’d already been imposing on him most of the day, until she realized that she didn’t know where she was.

Harry knew she was near Diagon Alley, of course, but McGonagall had apparated her here. Was she even in England anymore?

Her throat seemed to close in on itself and she felt much colder than she should. Harry could only nod in response as she plastered a smile on her face to cover up her growing fear. What would she have done if Marcus and Miss Farley weren’t here?

It calmed her to know Professor McGonagall wouldn’t have left her to shop on her own. If Miss Farley hadn’t been there, the professor would have found someone else or apparated her back to the Dursleys to shop another day.

The fear faded slowly, and her hands unclenched, leaving little red crescents behind. “Thank you.” She told him, not wanting to seem overly familiar by calling him Marcus. Harry wondered if he’d ever realize he hadn’t introduced himself.

Miss Farley, oddly enough, hadn’t been paying attention to them, which Harry found quite strange, having been under her watchful gaze for several hours already. She turned to her to find her staring at a beautiful owl with tiger-orange eyes sitting on the top of a signpost advertising _Lunar Café – Fine Coffee and Cakes._

“Oh, you have such pretty eyes, don’t you?” She cooed at him. Harry had always had a soft spot for animals.

“That’s a Gringotts owl.” Miss Farley told her.

“And?” Harry was already stroking the beautiful thing, who was leaning into her fingers like one of Mrs. Figg’s cats.

“They’re notoriously vicious.” Marcus told her amusedly.

“Only to those who don’t respect how regal you are, isn’t that right?” Harry asked the owl. The eagle owl puffed up and hooted, Harry quite thought it was an agreement.

“I wasn’t referencing their temperament.” Miss Farley told Marcus. “Gringotts owls deliver Gringotts mail, official banking statements and similar correspondence.”

Harry spotted a small tube strapped to the side of the owl’s foot, imprinted with a stylized goblin head set in a large G. “That’s where the letter is,” Marcus told her, noticing her attention.

The tube must have been enchanted because when she reached in, her entire hand vanished into the small opening and she managed to pull out a full-sized letter on parchment that couldn’t have possibly fit without magic.

She hadn’t really expected the replacement key to be done so quickly. The goblins did quick work, or maybe it was everyone with magic that did quick work. Harry recalled her new wardrobe was made in hardly any time at all, and when they ordered their food in the little eatery, they hadn’t even waited five-minutes!

“The goblins need me to go in person to get my replacement key.” She said out loud, breaking the seal on the letter and unrolling it to make sure that was it. It was.

“Alright, let’s set up a place to meet once your business with the goblins is done, then.”

Apparently, it was bad manners to sit in on a meeting with the goblins when you had no business with them yourself. Harry walked into the Gringotts building with the promise to meet Marcus at Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlor. Miss Farley unfortunately had to leave for other business, but Harry had watched her give Marcus a stern glare before she left. Harry took that to mean Miss Farley would be very cross with Marcus if anything happened to Harry.

“Hello?” She enquired to the teller, “I got a letter to come and get a replacement key?” It came out more as a question.

“Sharpclaw!” The teller called, not even looking up at Harry.

A goblin – Harry assumed it was Sharpclaw – gestured for her to follow and led her off through one of the many doors, and then another, and then another. It was quite a maze of hallways and doors _–_ Harry was personally reminded of the cart ride down to her vault _–_ before they finally stopped in an office.

It was a pleasant little office, a little bit plain with just a desk and two chairs.

Once they were seated, the Gringotts goblin smiled sharply at Harry. “Your parents were quite intelligent, Miss Potter.”

“Wha-”

“By placing their fortune in trust for you, they circumvented probate court. Knowing as they do that transfer of estate in the wizarding world goes to the heir without ever passing through the court, they ensured that the heirlooms and monetary value of their vaults could not be taken advantage of.”

Harry knew she should be much more interested in the fortune Sharpclaw was telling her about, but she could only think about one thing – Miss Potter, he had said. How did he know? She hadn’t told anyone she was a girl.

Her parents had wanted a boy. That’s why she was named Harry, after all. Her parents didn’t even bother picking out a girl’s name, they were so set on a boy.

Aunt Petunia had explained this to her, when she had asked about why they always called her ‘boy’ or referred to her as ‘him.’ She told Harry that even all her parents’ old acquaintances were under the impression that she was male, so they were only continuing the charade her parents had started.

She wanted her parents to be proud of her. So much. If her parents had wanted a boy, she would be a boy, she had thought, and she’d never wavered.

“I thought I was here for my replacement key?” She asked, more as a ploy for more time to think than an actual query.

“Of course.” Sharpclaw pulled some sort of slight of hand, pulling a shiny, golden key from seemingly nowhere. He held it out to her, “Your key, Miss Potter.” There it was again; she hadn’t just imagined it.

“Why _–_ How do you know I’m a girl?” She settled on asking.

The goblin gave her a curious look, his head tipped to the side as he surveyed her. “Your parents were quite intelligent, Miss Potter. As long as you are who you say you are, you can access your vault by any name, an asset for one in a position such as yourself, but we of Gringotts needed convincing to bestow such a boon.”

“I’m sorry, what position am I in?” She interrupted, not understanding what the goblin was saying.

“Your position as the Boy-Who-Lived, of course.”

Harry stared blankly. Was that supposed to mean something?

The goblin stared back before saying something in a guttural language Harry didn’t understand and then beginning a story as if nothing of import had happened. Harry thought that skill could come in handy.

Harry could only stare in growing horror as the goblin explained an attack on her family of which she was the only survivor. Her status as a figurehead to those self-labeled light-wizards due to said survival. And the non-incarcerated status of many of her _parent’s murderers’_ followers.

“While Gringotts was informed of your identity by your father,” The goblin continued, “The rest of the wizarding world is only aware of the fiction of Harry James Potter.”

“Fiction?” She whispered to herself. Harry’s head was spinning. She _wasn’t_ Harry?

“Of course, the original plan was only for until your parents were able to come out of hiding, so if something happened, the Death Eaters wouldn’t be looking for a girl.”

“What do you mean Harry Potter is fiction?” It came out half-strangled. If she wasn’t Harry, who was she?

“Harry Potter was what your father would have named you if you were a boy.” The goblin told her.

She took a moment to process that. She wasn’t Harry because Harry would have been a boy. “What would _–_ What was the name for a girl?” The goblin finally seemed to understand where she was going with her question.

There was no pity, only understanding, as he told her, “Calla Iolanthe Potter was what was decided, since you were a girl.”

“My name is Calla Iolanthe Potter.” She tried out to herself.

The goblin grinned wryly. “My name is Sharpclaw; I oversee the Potter accounts. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Calla Iolanthe Potter.”

Marcus had bought her a chocolate fudge ice cream at Fortescue’s when they had finally met up, but time was running short in the day, and shortly later, they were standing in front of 4 Privet Drive.

Calla had warned Marcus against meeting her relatives. Even though he’d looked perturbed at the warning, he’d complied, and Calla was grateful for it because the moment she had walked in the door, Uncle Vernon grabbed her by the scruff of the neck and tossed her and her trunk into her cupboard.

The trunk fit well enough under the lowest of the stairs, but she’d had to swap out her dead flashlight batteries for Dudley’s controller batteries a few times with how often she was reading to keep occupied.

That last month with the Dursleys wasn’t fun. True, Dudley couldn’t bother her when she was locked up in her cupboard, and she was able to read as much as she liked, but it got quite depressing only being let out twice a day to use the restroom.

On the early morning of September 1, she carefully pulled out a white button-up and grey pullover, as well as a pair of black slacks. It was a very uniform-like outfit but was still muggle-like. She left the robe in her trunk for when she got on the train.

“Where’d you get the clothes, boy?” Uncle Vernon sneered at her, likely assuming she stole them.

Calla thought she was quite smart in replying that Hogwarts had a fund for those whose parents couldn’t afford the school supplies, and that it covered enough for a few second-hand clothes, if she didn’t spend any on sweets or toys.

Pretending that they were second-hand clothes was easy when she could pretend that magic made their quality last longer, and it also made Uncle Vernon think she had much less money than she actually did. Calla also mentioned sweets and toys so he’d think she was suffering just to clothe herself – Uncle Vernon always enjoyed when she went without something Dudley had in abundance and got happiness over.

Uncle Vernon was driving her to King’s Cross. Calla suspected that her Aunt Petunia had spoken to him – at least based on how many comments Uncle Vernon made about how he shouldn’t have to waste gas money on one of _her kind_ no matter what kind of threats the _others_ made. He blustered and complained the whole way to the station.

They reached King’s Cross at almost ten on the dot, but Uncle Vernon didn’t stick around to help her to the platform – not that she had expected him to – he was driving away the moment she’d pulled her trunk out. He had sped away so quickly, the boot had slammed shut from the force!

Calla loaded her featherlight trunk on a trolley, so she wouldn’t look so strange pulling a big, heavy-looking trunk with relative ease.

Miss Farley had told her that the entrance was the wall between Platform Nine and Platform Ten, the one right before the ticket barrier. As she casually walked through the barrier to the Hogwarts express, Calla briefly wondered if there was a Platform nine and one quarter past the wall opposite.

A scarlet steam engine was waiting next to a platform filled with people. A sign overhead said _Hogwarts Express, 11 o’clock_. Calla looked behind her and saw a wrought-iron archway where the ticket box had been, with the words _Platform Nine and Three-Quarters_ on it. Magic was brilliant.

Smoke from the engine drifted over the heads of the chattering crowd, while cats of every color wound here and there between their legs. Owls hooted to each other in a disgruntled sort of way over the babble and the scraping of heavy trunks.

With still an hour until the train left, hardly any of the compartments had any students in them, but Calla went to find a compartment in the back anyway.

Once she felt sufficiently far away from the crowds, Calla grabbed her trunk and awkwardly dragged it into the compartment shoving it under the bench seat after pulling out a book. She almost wished she had gotten the shrinking function, but twenty galleons for a feature she would hardly ever use and could learn a spell for wasn't worth it, in her opinion.

Calla sat down next to the window and settled in to read the book she had pulled out _–_ _Understanding Ingredients and their uses in Potions._

She was shaken from her reading when the train started to move. She set her book in her lap as she watched houses flash by.

The door of the compartment slid open and a red-headed boy came in.

“Anyone sitting there?” he asked, pointing at the seat opposite Calla. “Everywhere else is full.”

Calla shook her head and the boy sat down. He glanced at Calla and then looked quickly out of the window, pretending he hadn’t looked. Calla saw he had a black mark on his nose.

“Hey, Ron.” There was a pair of identical twins at the door.

“Listen, we’re going down the middle of the train _–_ Lee Jordan’s got a giant tarantula down there.”

“Right.” Mumbled Ron.

The twins left with only a brief glance at Calla.

“Those were my older brothers.” Ron explained. “I’m Ron Weasley.”

She was going to introduce herself as just, ‘Potter,’ but Weasley beat her to it. “Blimey, you’re him, aren’t you?”

“Who?’

“Harry Potter!”

“Oh, him,” said Calla. “I mean, yes, I am.”

She wondered how long the charade would last. Calla had originally kept her gender a secret because of the misconception that her parents had wanted a boy; now she would keep it up to make full use of the protection her parents put into place in case she needed to go into hiding.

“And have you really got – you know…”

He pointed at Calla’s forehead.

First Ollivander and now Weasley, what was the obsession with pointing at her scar?

“Yes.” She told him, not liking how he had entered her compartment without knocking and was now pointing at her.

“Well, can I see it?” he asked.

“You could already see it well enough if you recognized me.” She told him before pulling her book back up from her lap and resolving to just ignore the redhead.

Weasley did not seem to get the message. “Do you remember it at all?” Calla wondered if he was just raised without tact but didn’t reply.

As she soon found out, Weasley didn’t need her to reply to carry on a conversation. He told Calla all about his five older brothers and one younger sister, as well as about all the old things he got from his older siblings.

Calla started paying attention again when a smiling, dimpled woman slid back their door and asked, “Anything off the trolley, dears?” Did nobody know how to knock in the wizarding world?

Calla bought three of everything and tossed one of everything to Weasley. This was in part due to the fact that she recognized none of the candy, and didn’t want to eat anything unfamiliar without knowing what it was or did, and it was in part due to the hope that if Weasley were eating, he’d be quiet.

Weasley had tried refusing, more out of pride than anything, but she simply packed away the rest of the sweets in her trunk and ignored him again until he figured out she wouldn’t take them back.

Calla felt fortunate she had waited to try the candy as she surreptitiously watched the fizzing Whizzbees float Weasley a few inches off the seat and the Chocolate Frog take a hop before Weasley caught it and bit its head off.

Unfortunately eating didn’t mean Weasley was quiet, but his commentary had changed to the sweets he was consuming. Things like:

“When they say every flavor, they _mean_ every flavor,” and “They’ve only got one good jump in them,” and “I’ve got Morgana again, I’ve already got six of her…I was hoping for Agrippa.”

There was a knock on the door of the compartment and a round-faced boy came in. He looked tearful.

“Sorry,” he said, “but have you seen a toad at all?”

When they shook their heads, he wailed, “I’ve lost him! He keeps on getting away from me!”

“He’ll turn up,” Calla assured the boy. Weasley looked over surprised that she was speaking. He’d likely assumed she just wasn’t talkative rather than her purposefully ignoring him.

“Yes,” said the boy miserably, “Well, if you see him…”

He left before Calla could offer to help look.

“Don’t know why he was so bothered,” said Weasley, and Calla felt a flare of anger. At least the other boy had had the manners to know how to _knock_. “If I’d brought a toad, I’d lose it as quick as I could. Mind you, I brought Scabbers, so I can’t talk.”

The rat was snoozing on Weasleys lap.

“He might have died, and you wouldn’t know the difference,” said Weasley in disgust. “I tried to turn him yellow yesterday to make him more interesting, but the spell didn’t work. I’ll show you, look…”

He rummaged around in his trunk and pulled out a battered looking wand. It was chipped in places and something white was glinting at the end.

“Unicorn hair’s nearly poking out. Anyway –”

He had just raised his wand when the compartment door slid open again. Calla thought she might start a blacklist of everyone who entered her compartment without knocking. The round-faced boy was back, but he was not the one who had simply opened the door. He was with a girl already in her Hogwarts robes.

“Has anyone seen a toad? Neville’s lost one,” she said. She had a bossy sort of voice, lots of bushy brown hair and rather large front teeth.

“We’ve already told him we haven’t seen it.” said Weasley, but the girl wasn’t listening, she was looking at the wand in his hand.

“Oh, are you doing magic? Let’s see it then.”

She sat down. Weasley looked taken aback.

“Er – all right.”

He cleared his throat.

“Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow,

Turn this stupid, fat rat, yellow.”

He waved his wand, but nothing happened. Scabbers stayed grey and fast asleep.

“Are you sure that’s a real spell?” said the girl. “Well, it’s not a very good one, is it? I’ve tried a few simple spells just for practice and it’s all worked for me. Nobody in my family’s magic at all, it was ever such a surprise when I got my letter, but I was ever so pleased, of course, I mean, it’s the very best school of witchcraft there is, I’ve heard – I’ve learnt all our set books off by heart, of course, I just hope it will be enough – I’m Hermione Granger, by the way, who are you?”

She said this all very fast.

“I’m Ron Weasley,” Weasley muttered.

“Potter,” she offered.

“Harry Potter? Are you really?” said Granger. “I know all about you, of course – I got a few extra books for the background reading, and you’re in _Modern Magical History_ and _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_ and _Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century._

“Am I?” Calla replied, uninterested in someone who thought they knew her based on books that still thought she was male.

“Goodness, didn’t you know, I’d have found out everything I could if it was me,” said Granger. “Do either of you know what house you’ll be in? I’ve been asking around and I hope I’m in Gryffindor, it sounds by far the best, I hear Dumbledore himself was one, but I suppose Ravenclaw wouldn’t be too bad…Anyway, we’d better go and look for Neville’s toad. You two had better change, you know. I expect we’ll be there soon.”

And she left, taking Neville with her.

Calla went back to ignoring Weasley as he began to go off about some wizarding sport called quidditch.

The compartment door slid open yet again, and Calla decided that a blacklist for rude people _was_ necessary.

Three boys entered. The one in the middle had a pale, pointed face and pale-blond hair.

“Is it true?” the blond boy asked. “They’re saying all down the train that Harry Potter’s in this compartment. So it’s you, is it?”

“Yes,” said Calla. She was looking at the other boys. Both were thickset and looked extremely mean. Standing on either side of the pale boy, they looked like bodyguards.

“Oh, this is Crabbe and Goyle,” said the pale boy carelessly, noticing where Calla was looking. “And my name’s Malfoy, Draco Malfoy.”

Weasley gave a slight cough, which might have been hiding a snigger. Draco Malfoy looked at him.

“Think my name’s funny, do you? No need to ask who you are. My father told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford.”

He turned back to Calla.

“You’ll soon find out that some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter. You don’t want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there.”

He held out his hand to shake Calla’s, but Calla didn’t take it.

“I would think,” she began coolly, “That I would rather not take advice from someone without the consideration to even knock before entering a private compartment.” She stood and grabbed her trunk from under the seat. “Weasley, Malfoy,” she dismissed them before pushing her way out of the compartment and towards the front of the train.

The front few compartments were filled with older students wearing badges adorned with a large stylized P. Miss Farley was in one of the two compartments and Calla waved at her when she glanced over.

The next compartment over only had the boy from the robe shop in it, so she knocked. “May I sit here?” she asked. “My last compartment was getting very loud.” The dark-skinned boy nodded, and Calla spent the rest of the trip in pleasant silence.

At the announcement that they would arrive in five minutes time, she stowed her book away and pulled on the outer robe from her trunk. She could see throngs of people standing in the hallway waiting for the train to stop so they could get off.

Calla didn’t bother. She’d rather get off last than be shoved through the crowds. The dark-skinned boy seemingly had the same idea, so they ended up deboarding at the same time.

The round-faced boy from earlier, Neville, Calla recalled, was also late to get off the train, so it was the three of them that brought up the back of the line of first-years as they made their way down a steep, narrow path.

“Yeh’ll get yer firs’ sight o’ Hogwarts in a sec,” the giant of a man leading them called over his shoulder, “jus’ round this bend here.”

There was a loud “Oooooh!”

The narrow path had opened suddenly on the edge of a great black lake. Perched atop a high mountain on the other side, its windows sparkling in the starry sky, was a vast castle with many turrets and towers.

“No more’n four to a boat!” was called out, as the giant man gestured to a fleet of little boats with his lamp.

The dark-skinned boy and Neville joined Calla in the boat.

“Everyone in? Right then – FORWARD!”

And the fleet of little boats moved off all at once, gliding across the lake, which was smooth as glass. Everyone was silent, staring up at the great castle overhead. It towered over them as they sailed nearer and nearer to the cliff on which it stood.

“Heads down!” was yelled as the first boats reached the cliff; they all bent their heads and the little boats carried them through a curtain of ivy which hid a wide opening in the cliff face. They were carried along a dark tunnel, which seemed to be taking them right underneath the castle, until they reached a kind of underground harbor, where they clambered out on to rocks and pebbles.

“Oy, you there! Is this your toad?’

“Trevor!” cried Neville blissfully, holding out his hands. Then they clambered up a passageway in the rock after the light of the lamp, coming out at last on to smooth, damp grass, right in the shadow of the castle.

They walked up a flight of stone steps and crowded around the huge, oak front door.

“Everyone here? You there, still got yer toad?”

The man raised a gigantic fist and knocked three times on the castle door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always comments are appreciated. :)


	7. The Sorting

The door swung open at once. Calla recognized Professor McGonagall standing in the doorway.

“The firs’-years, Professor McGonagall.”

“Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here.”

She pulled the door wide. The Entrance Hall was so big you could have fit the whole of the Dursleys’ house in it. The stone walls were lit with flaming torches like the ones at Gringotts, the ceiling was too high to make out, and a magnificent marble staircase facing them led to the upper floors.

They followed Professor McGonagall across the flagged stone floor. Calla could hear the drone of hundreds of voices from a doorway to the right – the rest of the school must already be here – but Professor McGonagall showed the first-years into a small, empty chamber off the hall. They crowded in, standing rather closer together than they would usually have done, peering about nervously.

“Welcome to Hogwarts,” said Professor McGonagall. “The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses. The sorting is a very important ceremony because, while you are here, your house will be something like your family within Hogwarts. You will have classes with the rest of your house, sleep in your house dormitory, and spend free time in your house common room.

“The four houses are called Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin. Each house has its own noble history, and each has produced outstanding witches and wizards. While you are at Hogwarts, your triumphs will earn your house points, while any rule-breaking will lose house points. At the end of the year, the house with the most points is awarded the house cup, a great honor. I hope each of you will become a credit to whichever house becomes yours.

“The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting.”

Her eyes lingered for a moment on Neville’s cloak, which was fastened under his left ear, and on Weasleys smudged nose. Calla nervously tried to finger-comb her hair, but knew it was of no use.

“I shall return when we are ready for you,” said Professor McGonagall. “Please wait quietly.”

She left the chamber. Calla swallowed.

She had a nervous energy about her, and no one to talk to in order to distract herself, so she turned to Neville, even though she didn’t know him well.

“You’ve managed to twist your cloak around. Did you want help fixing it?” she offered.

“Would you?” he asked with a nervous air.

Calla set about readjusting his cloak without answering. He’d probably gone spare looking for Trevor and it had twisted from its proper position while he was looking under benches or some such.

She tried to tune out the other students who were panicking in increasing volumes once she had finished her task. And then the screaming started. Calla spun around to see about twenty ghosts streaming through the back wall. Pearly-white and slightly transparent, they glided across the room talking to each other and hardly glancing at the first-years. They seemed to be arguing, but Calla didn’t have the patience to find out why. Beside that she was much too busy panicking from the shock of it. She mentally listed all the potions ingredients she’d learned and their properties in her head until she heard Professor McGonagall’s voice again. It was about as effective as doing math in her head.

“Move along now,” she was saying, “The Sorting Ceremony’s about to start.” Once the ghosts had left through the back wall again, she faced the first years. “Now, form a line and follow me.”

Calla got into line behind Neville. The boy they shared their boat with fell in behind them. They walked out of the side chamber, back across the hall, and through a pair of double doors into the Great Hall.

Calla had never imagined such a strange and splendid place. It was lit by thousands and thousands of candles which were floating in mid-air over four long tables, where the rest of the students were sitting. These tables were laid with glittering golden plates and goblets. At the top of the Hall was another long table where the teachers were sitting. Professor McGonagall led the first years up there, so that they came to a halt in a line facing the other students, with the teachers behind them. The hundreds of faces staring at them looked like pale lanterns in the flickering candlelight. Dotted here and there among the students, the ghosts shone misty silver. Mainly to avoid all the staring eyes, Calla looked upwards and saw a velvety black ceiling dotted with stars. She heard Granger whisper, “It’s bewitched to look like the sky outside, I read about it in _Hogwarts: A History_.”

It was hard to believe there was a ceiling there at all, and that the Great Hall didn’t simply open on to the heavens.

Calla quickly looked down again as Professor McGonagall set a four-legged stool in front of the first years. Sitting on the stool was a patched and frayed wizards’ hat.

She stared at the hat with the rest of the hall, waiting, it seemed, for it to do something. Then, it twitched. A rip near the brim opened and the hat began to sing:

_"Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,_

_But don't judge on what you see,_

_I'll eat myself if you can find_

_A smarter hat than me._

_You can keep your bowlers black,_

_Your top hats sleek and tall,_

_For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat_

_And I can cap them all._

_There's nothing hidden in your head_

_The Sorting Hat can't see,_

_So try me on and I will tell you_

_Where you ought to be._

_You might belong in Gryffindor,_

_Where dwell the brave at heart,_

_Their daring, nerve, and chivalry_

_Set Gryffindors apart;_

_You might belong in Hufflepuff,_

_Where they are just and loyal,_

_Those patient Hufflepuffs are true_

_And unafraid of toil;_

_Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,_

_if you've a ready mind,_

_Where those of wit and learning,_

_Will always find their kind;_

_Or perhaps in Slytherin_

_You'll make your real friends,_

_Those cunning folk use any means_

_To achieve their ends._

_So put me on! Don't be afraid!_

_And don't get in a flap!_

_You're in safe hands (though I have none)_

_For I'm a Thinking Cap!"_

The whole hall burst into applause as the hat finished its song. It bowed to each of the four tables and then became quite still again.

Professor McGonagall stepped forward holding a long roll of parchment.

“When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted,” she said. “Abbott, Hannah!”

A pink-faced girl with blonde pigtails stumbled out of line, put on the hat, which fell right over her eyes, and sat down. A moments pause –

“HUFFLEPUFF!” shouted the hat.

The table on the right cheered and clapped as Abbott went to sit down at the Hufflepuff table.

“Bones, Susan!”

“HUFFLEPUFF!” shouted the hat again, and Bones scuttled off to sit next to Abbott.

“Boot, Terry!”

“RAVENCLAW!”

The table second from the left clapped this time; several Ravenclaws stood to shake hands with Boot as he joined them.

“Brocklehurst, Mandy!” went to Ravenclaw, too, but “Brown, Lavender!” became the first new Gryffindor and the table on the far left exploded with cheers; Calla could see the identical red-headed twins from earlier catcalling.

“Bulstrode, Millicent!” then became a Slytherin.

She got distracted looking at four glass hourglasses lining the wall and filled with gemstones of different sorts. Each only had gemstones in the upper portions except the one with emeralds, which had a few dozen gemstones having impossibly dropped through the thin hourglass neck.

“Finch-Fletchley, Justin!”

“HUFFLEPUFF!”

Sometimes, Calla noticed, the hat shouted out the house at once, but at others it took a little while to decide. “Finnegan, Seamus!” sat on the stool almost a full minute before he was declared a Gryffindor.

“Granger, Hermione!”

Granger almost ran to the stool and jammed the hat eagerly on her head.

“GRYFFINDOR!” shouted the hat, and Calla could hear Weasley groan even from where she stood.

When Neville Longbottom was called, the hat took a long time to decide before finally shouting, “GRYFFINDOR!”

“MacDougal, Morag!” was after Neville and was quickly the newest Ravenclaw student.

Malfoy swaggered forward when his name was called. The hat hardly touched his head before calling out “SLYTHERIN!”

Malfoy went to join Crabbe and Goyle, looking quite pleased with himself.

There weren’t many people left now.

“Moon” … “Nott” … “Parkinson” … then a pair of twin girls, “Patil” and “Patil”… then “Perks, Sally-Anne!”… and then, at last –

“Potter, Harry!”

As Calla stepped forward, whispers suddenly broke out like little hissing fires all over the hall.

“ _Potter,_ did she say?”

“ _The_ Harry Potter?”

The last thing Calla saw before the brim of the hat dropped over her eyes was the Hall full of people craning to get a good look at her. She waited.

‘Hmm,’ said a small voice in her ear. ‘Difficult. Very difficult. Plenty of courage, I see. An inquisitive mind. There’s talent, oh my goodness, yes – and a nice thirst to prove yourself, now that’s interesting … so where shall I put you?’

Calla gripped the edges of the stool to steady herself with the loss of vision. ‘I want–’ _freedom, family, friends._ ‘–Everything.’ She settled on.

‘Everything? Well then, I know just where to put you. Better be–’ “SLYTHERIN!” Calla heard the hat shout the last word to the entirety of the Great Hall.

She took off the hat, and when McGonagall didn’t take it, she set it on the stool and walked to the Slytherin table. Marcus started the cheer and the rest of the house seemed to catch on quickly, because she was soon receiving the loudest cheer yet.

The fifth-year Prefects were sitting between the new first-years and the rest of the table, so Calla was quite happy to sit down next to Marcus and across from Miss Farley.

By the time she looked back to the sorting, Professor McGonagall having come to her senses shortly after the cheer, there were only three people left.

“Lisa Turpin!” became a Ravenclaw, and then “Weasley, Ronald!” was sorted into Gryffindor.

“Zabini, Blaise!” The dark-skinned boy she had shared a train compartment with, was the last to be sorted into Slytherin. Professor McGonagall rolled up her scroll and took the hat and stool away.

Calla looked down to the empty plate before dismissing it. She hadn’t really felt hungry since a week into her confinement, so eating wasn’t in the forefront of her mind.

The person Calla assumed was the headmaster wore half-moon glasses, had a crooked nose and flowing silver hair, beard, and mustache. She recalled his name from her admittance letter was Albus Dumbledore.

He had stood from his seat and had his arms spread wide, as if nothing could have pleased him more than to have them all there.

"Welcome," he said. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!

"Thank you!"

He sat back down.

Calla noticed that while the rest of the hall was clapping and cheering earnestly, the Slytherin table seemed to only be going through the motions.

She didn’t bother clapping either. The excitement of the day was getting to her and, having been confined to her cupboard for the last month, she wasn’t quite used to this level of exercise. She was debating just leaning forward and falling asleep on the table when she realized all the golden plates and platters were now full of all manner of dishes. Roast beef, roast chicken, pork chops and lamb chops, sausages, bacon and steak, boiled potatoes, roast potatoes, chips, Yorkshire pudding, carrots, peas, gravy, ketchup and, for some strange reason, mint humbugs.

Calla just wanted to sleep, but Marcus was filling her plate with small portions of different vegetables and fruits. He had gotten a small bowl from somewhere and filled it with a light soup that was mainly broth, and her goblet was filled with milk.

He leaned in close when he set her now filled plate in front of her. “Eat,” he told her. “You’ve lost at least a stone since last month.”

She didn’t argue. She was wearing the tailored clothes Marcus had helped her get last month, and the weight loss was all the more obvious for it, despite the wizarding robes surely covering the worst of it. Some of the older students gained a speculative look in their eyes as they watched Marcus mother-hen.

The Dursleys had never _exactly_ starved Calla, but she’d _never_ been able to eat as much as she liked. Dudley had always taken anything Calla ever really wanted, even if it made him sick.

She normally got small portions of breakfast and dinner when she wasn’t locked up, but this last month, she was nothing _but_ locked up, and Calla had been too despondent to regularly sneak crisps and risk further punishment.

After all, she was still technically being fed, just not with the frequency she had been accustomed to. Aunt Petunia gave her a slice of bread or so every day, and she had a water bottle that was filled every morning when she was let out to use the restroom.

When she started on the soup, it was even better tasting than the soup from that cute little shop miss Farley had taken her to. There were delicate little pieces of chicken that simply fell apart in her mouth and the warmth from the bowl seeped into her hands as she drained the last of the soup. The vegetables were perfectly cooked, and the fruit was juicy and sweet.

Calla had hardly finished everything in front of her while keeping tabs of the children and prefects around her.

The rude blond boy from the train, Malfoy, posed no threat to her while a bloody looking ghost sat to his right. Zabini, on the other hand, was surreptitiously eyeing her between conversation with a taller, thin boy with light brown hair. A blonde with ice-blue eyes took to glaring her way until a black-haired girl dragged her attention away.

It was when the main course had cleared to be replaced by ice-creams and treacle and pies and rice-pudding that talk turned to her. Zabini started the inquisition with a smooth, “Didn’t expect Slytherin, Potter?”

“I hadn’t really thought about it, to be honest,” She told him. “Is there some reason I shouldn’t have?”

Malfoy spluttered, but Zabini seemed to get a satisfied gleam in his eyes. “No, no reason at all,” he said at the same time that Malfoy declared, “Of course there is!”

Calla looked at Malfoy, but he didn’t elaborate.

Marcus, however, didn’t have such qualms. “Both your parents were in Gryffindor, and the rivalry between our houses is…legendary.” He explained, which she supposed made some sort of sense, with children normally being raised by their parents, they likely had similar values.

“Is it usual then, for children to be sorted in the same house as their parents?”

The brown-haired boy who had been talking to Zabini nodded sagely. “Most families expect it, even,” he told her.

“Is that so?” She asked, not really a question.

She didn’t particularly care for conversations, but these people were to be something like her family while she was here, Professor McGonagall had said. She should at least try to get along with them.

Suddenly, an idea struck her. Accidental magic, as she had read in _Magical Theory_ by Adalbert Waffling, was universal to most magical children.

It was something they could all relate to.

It was easy to change the subject, not that anyone seemed to notice or mind. “Does accidental magic run in families, too?” She asked.

The answer was that it was correlated but not inherently passed down. Something about family talents being similar, but not identical or relevant to accidental magic.

Either way, the question served it’s purpose and the talk changed to what magic they had growing up.

Parkinson, as she learned the black-haired girl’s name was, had once put on one of her mother’s favorite dresses and it had shrunk to fit her perfectly. To which Calla shared her own story of a horrifically ugly sweater that she had shrunk to only be able to fit a doll.

She talked about how her hair would always grow back overnight after a haircut and learned that Zabini had caused one of his stepfathers to lose all their hair.

Calla found out that Malfoy had turned his father’s hair pink for not buying him a broom just as she shared that she had turned a teacher’s wig blue.

Nott, the thin brown-haired boy, had vanished the door to the broom-shed only a few months ago, which sent her into hysterical giggles that she had to explain.

“My cousin shoved me out of the way to look at a snake exhibit in a zoo and when I vanished the glass, he fell in.”

She was on much better terms with all of them by the time the desserts disappeared, and Headmaster Dumbledore got to his feet.

The hall was silent when he spoke. “Aherm – just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered. I have a few start-of-term notices to give you.

“First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well.

The Headmasters twinkling eyes flashed in the direction of the Weasley twins.

I have also been asked, by Mr. Filch, the caretaker, to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors.

“Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term. Anyone interested in playing for their house teams should contact Madame Hooch.

“And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death.”

A few people laughed awkwardly before they understood it was not a joke.

“And now, before we go to bed, let us sing the school song!” cried the Headmaster. Calla noticed that the other teachers’ smiles had become rather fixed.

The Headmaster gave his wand a little flick, as if he was trying to get a fly off the end, and a long golden ribbon flew out of it, which rose high above the tables, and twisted itself, snakelike, into words.

“everyone, pick their favorite tune,” said Headmaster Dumbledore, “And off we go!”

Calla took one look at the words: ‘Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts’ and realizing what Dumbledore had meant with different tunes covered her ears.

She reluctantly uncovered them when only the Weasley twins were left singing along to a very slow funeral march. The Headmaster conducted their last few lines with his wand and when they had finished, he was one of those who clapped loudest.

“Ah, music,” he said, wiping his eyes. “A magic beyond all we do here! And now, bedtime. Off you trot!”

The Slytherin first years followed Marcus and Miss Farley through the chattering crowds, along a large corridor past the great hall doors, and down and down a spiral staircase. Calla’s legs felt like lead, but only because she was so tired and full of food. She was too tired to even be surprised that there were moving portraits whispering and pointing as they passed, or that they were led through walls similar to the platform wall that weren’t really walls at all. They were all yawning and dragging their feet when Marcus and Miss Farley stopped in front of a blank stretch of wall, only differing from the surrounding stones by a small snake carved there.

She turned to them, clapping her hands together to gain their attention. “Congratulations on making it into Slytherin. I’m Prefect Gemma Farley, and I’m delighted to welcome you to Slytherin house. Our emblem is the serpent and our common room lies behind a concealed entrance, accessible by a password which changes fortnightly. The current password is Serpentis Lacum.” A stone door concealed in the wall slid open and they followed the prefects through the opening. “Our common room is underneath the lake, so it’s not unusual to see the giant squid or the occasional curious selkie.”

The Slytherin common room was a long, low underground room with rough stone walls and ceiling, from which round, greenish lamps were hanging on chains. A fire was crackling under an elaborately carved mantlepiece ahead of them, and several older Slytherins were silhouetted around it in carved chairs.

“Now, there are a few things you should know about Slytherin – and a few you should forget. Firstly, you might have heard rumors about Slytherin House – that we’re all into the Dark Arts and will only talk to you if your great-grandfather was a famous wizard, and rubbish like that. Well, you don’t want to believe everything you hear from competing houses.

“I’m not denying that we’ve produced our share of Dark wizards, but so have the other three houses – they just don’t like admitting it.

“We’re like our emblem, powerful, sleek, and frequently misunderstood. In Slytherin House, we look after our own. As far as we’re concerned, once you’ve become a snake, you’re one of ours – one of the elite.

“Because you know what Salazar Slytherin looked for in his students? The seeds of greatness. You’ve been chosen by this house because you’ve got the potential to be great, in the true sense of the word.

“Little known fact that the other houses don’t like admitting, Merlin was a Slytherin. If the sorting hat put you in the house of the snakes, it saw something in you, never doubt that.

“That should be all for now. Each year has their own common space with connecting dorm rooms and each room has its own connecting bathroom. Socialization can be done in the yearly or the communal common room as other student are both unallowed and unable to enter your personal rooms.

“Be sure to be down in the main common tomorrow morning by seven for an address from our head of house, Professor Snape. The first year rooms are down this hall.” Miss Farley gestured to a hall with an emblazoned ‘I’ over the archway. “Sleep well.”

Calla followed the other first years through the hallway to a pleasant little circular room that seemed a small version of the room they’d just left. There were several low-backed black and green button-tufted sofas and chairs. There was another chess set near a wall with a floor to ceiling bookshelf. On the remaining wall space were dark-colored doors with silver engraved plates, each with a name on it.

Calla opened the door, engraved simply ‘ _Potter_ ’, and entered. There was an ancient looking four poster bed with green silk hangings, and the bedspread was embroidered with glossy silver thread. There was a beautiful moving tapestry of a woman in green and silver riding horseback and slaying various enemies. The light in the room was cast from a silver light rather than green like in the commons.

Her trunk was already at the end of the bed. To tired to do much else, Calla changed into her new pajamas and fell asleep to the soothing sound of water lapping at the windows.

Calla dreamt that night of the green light, but it changed to the soothing green of the common room with all of her housemates stood around her in front of the fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m trying to go with a realistic view of the Dursleys from canon. Before his second year, Harry was locked up, hardly fed to the point that he thought he might starve to death. 
> 
> Without the address on the letter worrying the Dursleys, Calla was never moved out of the cupboard.
> 
> Without Hagrid to instill a sense of fear for magic, I feel that they would still lock him up as punishment. From Harry’s remembrance of past instances of being locked up, withheld food was likely common. 
> 
> Yet Harry has always been the type of person to deny that he was ever abused, and Calla will follow the same line. Even above when she’s saying that the Dursley’s have never exactly starved her while simultaneously saying she sometimes wasn’t allowed to eat.
> 
> As for the lack of pain in her scar, she never made eye contact with the back of Quirrell’s head, so Voldemort never tried legilimency.
> 
> The intro speech to Slytherin is an edited version of the one from Pottermore by J.K. Rowling. I skipped over quite a bit of it because it was quite rambling, but I took a lot of the main points.
> 
> I'm debating right now whether this fanfiction is going to feature raving mad insane Voldemort or cunning genius Tom Riddle. Opinions?


	8. The Youngest Potions Master in a Century

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally get to go off-script a bit. Those first few chapters are necessary, showcasing the differences between the original and the fan-work, but tedious. Of course, even though I get to go off script a bit, it doesn’t stop me from re-reading the section that matches the timeline for the chapter, but it is much less essential now that I’ve established the primary branch off from canon.
> 
> Also, just to let everyone know, I've got a bad habit of writing beginning and endnotes before I start writing the chapter, so if something seems confusing, that's my fault.

It was in the eerie light which filtered through the lakeside window that Calla awoke. The silver orbs of light cast a steady, silver glow by which she gathered her uniform and made her way to the adjoining bathroom.

It was a very bright, white room with silver etchings and fixtures. A wide, single vanity was along one wall. Along the other wall was a porcelain clawfoot tub with stylized silver dragon claws holding it up. Going further in the room, she could see past a small privacy wall that hides the toilet next to the vanity.

It had been pure luck on Calla’s part that students received private quarters and bathing accommodations, and she only gained appreciation as she went about readying herself for the day to come. She didn’t need to hurry as much as if she was sharing or still at the Dursleys.

Miss Farley had mentioned that they should be in the commons by seven, but Calla knew from experience that it wasn’t near seven yet. Even when she hadn’t been allowed out of her cupboard, and therefore, had been allowed to sleep in, she would be forced to wake up early by the click-clack of Petunia’s heels.

Aunt Petunia always woke at promptly six a.m. for her morning shower, make-up routine, and to either wake Calla for breakfast preparations, or to do them herself. It’d gotten to the point where Calla woke a few minutes _before_ the noise started.

By her estimation, it was nearing half-past six when Calla made her way out of her room. Zabini was reading, stretched out on the green loveseat quite like one of Mrs Figg’s cats. His eyes were half-lidded as they followed the words.

“Good morning.” She greeted him as his eyes cut to her.

Calla gained new regard for the shopping trip Marcus had taken her on as she took stock of the crisp lines of Zabini’s deep blue button-up.

The oversized clothes she had inherited from Dudley would have stood out bleakly with the open-robed uniform, but her current sweater vest pulled over her own button-up wasn’t of any lesser quality than Zabini’s own clothes. Calla…liked the way she looked now, the way Zabini took stock of her and didn’t judge her for oversized clothes that weren’t hers (would never be hers) and _approved_ , it gave her a confidence she had never had before.

Zabini smiled like he had last evening, a pleased smile, his eyes narrowed in calculation, and not for the first time, Calla wondered if there was more to what the people around her were seeing. “Good morning.”

She gingerly set herself in one of the wingback chairs and pulled her satchel to her side. The satchel had been hanging on the door to her room with a note from Marcus inside, that the bookbag was a congratulatory gift for getting into Slytherin, and also an apology that he’d forgotten that Calla would need one when they had gone shopping.

The gift, as she’d found out, must have been an old bag of his, because she found _M. Flint_ embroidered in the corner. Calla was glad that she’d finally found his last name and wouldn’t have to continue referencing Flint obliquely.

It was a happy realization, that she wouldn’t need to carry books from class to class as she had throughout primary school. It also helped that the bag was much bigger of the inside and as featherlight as her trunk.

At five ‘till the hour, by Calla’s reckoning, just as Davis was exiting her room, Zabini stood and stretched while saying, “Shall we meet our Head of House, then?”

Prefects Farley and Flint, as well as the other four prefects, were waiting for them as they entered the larger space. Out of the ten Slytherin first years, only five were ready for their meeting with their Head of House. Nott and Bulstrode seemingly having gone down much earlier.

Flint ushered them to stand in front of the fireplace, their backs to the mantel clock above the eerie silver-green flames. The shadows seemed to seep from the walls, exacerbated by the flickering light of the fire, and it was from one such shadow that the black-haired professor she remembered from the feast seemingly bled from the walls.

“Hmm?” The noise sounded accusatory. His eyes surveyed the assembled five. “I see.”

Their Head of House had a hooked nose, curving outwards instead of straight, the tip having a downward tilt. It gave his already sharp face the look of a bird of prey. The sallow tone of his skin made the sharpness worse and his eyes stood out from it as dark tunnels, empty and echoing.

Calla held back a shudder when those eyes tightened as they passed over her. She, for one, did not want to know what the five latecomers would face under their Head of House's wrath.

“This is Slytherin.” The professor’s voice washed over her, soft and compelling. He spoke slowly, drawing out each word and pause for effect. “The rules here are simple. One, outside of this house, we are one. Outside of this house, there will be no disputes, no disagreements, no abandonment of each other. Two, whatever you have done, you will leave behind no proof. You will not get caught. Here, you will find that you are not judged by the standards of the common people, but by your own ingenuity, cunning, and stealth. Indeed, by the traits this house is founded on. I am your Head of House and Potions Professor, Severus Snape.”

Snape…Snape…She’d heard that name before, but where? It wasn’t from Flint or Farley, it definitely wasn’t from the Dursleys, she really could have only read it. None of her schoolbooks could have mentioned him, the earliest was written by Newt Scamander in 1927.

Then Calla remembered. _Understanding Ingredients and their Uses in Potions_ was a publication of academic articles. Several of the articles were written by S. Snape, the youngest potions master in a century, as the preface had called him.

She was interrupted from her burgeoning awe at having an icon for a teacher when he called out. “Potter. A word.” He pulled her aside, out of hearing of her year mates and the sparse older students. “At Hogwarts,” He began, his tone serious, and Calla worried for a brief moment, “All instances of bullying are treated very strictly.”

“Oh.” She breathed, her eyes watering. He _cared._ Calla looked up at him and smiled. “My last school didn’t really do anything,” and was it bad that she heard her voice crack? “I – thank you.”

Professor Snape’s face seemed to be very still while she was thanking him, but she couldn’t really blame him – he looked like a very stoic person, and doing this for her must have put him out of his comfort zone.

“…So long as you understand.”

That had been the high point of her day. Once she left the commons, whispers followed Calla the moment she left.

“There, look.”

“ _A Slytherin_.”

“Where?”

“ _With those snakes_.”

“Next to the prefect.”

“ _Doesn’t look like much to me_.”

“Wearing the glasses?”

“ _It’s the quiet ones you have to watch out for_.”

“Did you see his face?”

“ _The next Dark Lord, I reckon_.”

“Did you see his scar?”

“ _Only Dark magic could’ve gotten rid of you-know-who_.”

People lining up outside classrooms stood on tiptoe to get a look at her or doubled back to pass her in the corridors again, staring. Calla wished they wouldn’t because she was trying to concentrate on learning the ways to her classes.

There were a hundred and forty-two staircases in Hogwarts: wide, sweeping ones; narrow, rickety ones; some that led somewhere different on a Friday; some with a vanishing step halfway up that you had to remember to jump. Then there were doors that wouldn’t open unless you asked politely, or tickled them in exactly the right place, and doors that weren’t really doors at all, but just walls pretending. It was also very hard to remember where anything was because it all seemed to move around a lot. The people in the portraits kept going to visit each other, and Calla was sure the coats of armour could walk.

The Bloody Baron was always a lifesaver, he’d already escorted her to several of her classes. She’d heard that Peeves the Poltergeist was a problem for the other houses, but he rarely bothered the Slytherin students.

The only person in the school who knew most of the secret passageways (Besides the twin terrors of Gryffindor) was the caretaker of the school, a squib by the name of Argus Filch, and while he seemed grumpy, she figured anyone would be cleaning the entire castle by themselves.

Filch owned a cat called Mrs Norris, a scrawny, dust-coloured cat with bulging, lamplike eyes similar to Filch’s. Calla found Filch and asked if Mrs Norris was eating alright. She looked to be getting on in age after all. She was apparently one of the few people on his good side ever since that first morning.

And once they learned where their classes were, Calla found it was much different than she expected.

They studied the night skies with the Hufflepuffs through their telescopes every Thursday at midnight and learned the names of different stars and the movement of the planets. Three times a week they went out to the greenhouses behind the castle to study Herbology, with a plump little witch called Professor Sprout, where they learned how to take care of all the strange plants and fungi, and found out what they were used for.

Easily the most boring class was History of Magic, which was the only one taught by a ghost. Professor Binns had been very old indeed when he had fallen asleep in front of the staffroom fire and got up next morning to teach, leaving his body behind him. Binns droned on and on, and Calla was ever so grateful that Professor Snape told them to use the class as a self-study history class.

Professor Flitwick, the Charms teacher, was a tiny little wizard who had to stand on a pile of books to see over his desk. At the start of their first class, he took the roll call, and when he reached Calla’s male alias he gave an excited squeak and toppled out of sight.

Professor McGonagall was again different. Calla had been quite right to think she wasn’t a teacher to cross. Strict and clever, she gave them a talking-to the moment they sat down in her first class.

“Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts,” she said. “Anyone messing around in my class will leave and not come back. You have been warned.”

Then she changed her desk into a pig and back again. They were all very impressed and couldn’t wait to get started, but soon realized they weren’t going to be changing the furniture into pigs for a long time. After taking a series of complicated notes, they were each given a match and tasked with turning it into a needle. Calla had asked Zabini, who seemed to have no difficulties with the lesson, for pointers, and by the end of class, she had managed a metallic, but still wooden, needle. Zabini was awarded five points for helping her once he had finished the assignment.

Defence Against the Dark Arts, commonly abbreviated DADA, was what everyone was looking forward to the most, but Quirrell’s class was as much a self-study as Binns class, unlike Binns, however, Quirrell wasn’t horribly boring, just horribly nervous. He had a severe stutter that made it difficult for him to get through a single lesson. His classroom also smelled strongly of garlic, supposedly to ward off a vampire he’d encountered in Romania.

Calla was relieved to find she wasn’t behind her peers, Zabini had practised the beginning level spells at his family’s villa in Italy, where underage laws were different, but Malfoy and the others had the same views on schoolwork as their muggle counterparts, and they hadn’t really studied or practised at all.

She couldn't really get why they put off the learning. There was so much to learn after all.

Friday was an important day for Calla. It marked a full week of classes and the start of the weekend.

There weren’t really as many classes as she had expected, overall, just one or two of each class per week.

“Well, there’s only really one teacher per subject for all seven years, grandfather says we’ll have this much free-time until we choose electives in third-year,” Nott explained when she asked.

Another thing that Friday brought, was a break in the tension among the Slytherin first-years.

"Hey, Zabini, for Professor McGonagall’s essay, does she want examples exclusively from her lecture and the assigned text, or would she mind if we used supplemental reading?”

“Please, call me Blaise.”

“Then you don’t have to call me Potter,” Calla told her year mates. “That really goes for all of you, it feels a bit stiff, and we’ll be sharing a living space for seven years.”

“Theo for me, then, Theodore is also my grandfather.”

And introductions went around the table for the second time that week.

Just as they finished, the mail arrived. Calla had gotten used to this by now, but it had given her a bit of a shock that first morning when about a hundred owls had suddenly streamed into the Great Hall during breakfast, circling the tables until they saw their owners, and dropping letters and packages onto their laps.

Calla hadn’t received anything, seeing as even if the Dursleys had access to an owl, they would never send her anything.

This morning, Draco’s owl, a beautiful Eurasian Owl named Thor, had brought him a gift basket from his mother, Narcissa with all sorts of cakes and candies. Draco blushed all sorts of shades of red when he read the accompanying letter, but eventually gained enough composure to subtly brag about what he had gotten.

Draco had to leave breakfast early to put his new snacks away before their first class for the day.

Potions lessons took place down in one of the dungeons. It was colder here than up in the main castle and would have been quite creepy enough without the pickled animals floating in glass jars all around the walls.

Snape, like Flitwick, started the class with roll call, and like Flitwick, he paused at Calla’s alias but continued on after a moment. Professor Snape finished calling the names and looked up at the class. She had been right to think his eyes were like tunnels, unreflective of light as they were, and she wondered where the light _went_.

“You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potions making,” he began. He spoke in barely more than a whisper, but they caught every word – like Professor McGonagall, Professor Snape had the gift of keeping a class silent without effort. “As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don’t expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses…. I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death – if you aren’t as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach.”

More silence followed this little speech. The Slytherin side of the classroom was properly intimidated, but the speech was lost on the Gryffindor side. Granger from the train ride was leaning forward, eager to prove her worth as quickly as possible.

“Potter!” said Professor Snape suddenly. “What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”

Calla’s brow furrowed. She knew the ingredients; she’d been looking forward to potions the most since learning who her teacher was. Asphodel was one of the first items in _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_ , notable because its actual medicinal uses were ignored in favor of its mythological significance. Asphodel was thought to be the food of the dead, indigenous to the plain of Hades.

Wormwood, on the other hand, was used as a supplement even in muggle medicine to support the nervous system. In this case, since the potion used an infusion of wormwood instead of wormwood itself, the effects of wormwood would be concentrated and more important.

“Well?” Professor Snape asked, his lip curled.

“Would it be a potion to induce a deathlike state?”

“Indeed, it would, and if I were to ask you where to find a bezoar?”

The preface of their assigned textbook had covered this. “They’re typically harvested from the stomach of certain animals. In Scotland, I would look for a goat.”

“Hmm, and what, Mr Potter, is the difference between Monkshood and Wolfsbane?”

“Wolfsbane is commonly harvested on a new moon for its usage in wolfbane potion, whereas Monkshood is harvested on the full moon and both are alternatively called aconite when unharvested.”

Professor Snape’s face by this point was clearly surprised and she could feel her cheeks pink at the attention. She really _had_ had too much time to read before school started, and it wasn’t her fault that potions was one of the most fascinating, albeit complicated, subjects.

“Correct on all counts, Mr Potter. To further elaborate, asphodel in an infusion of wormwood is the most important step to making the Draught of Living Death, a powerful sleeping potion. A bezoar will save you from most poisons. Monkshood, aconite and wolfbane are impossible to tell apart as they are the same plant, but different harvesting times lead to different properties which is why they are labelled differently in potions.” He suddenly glared over at the Gryffindor side of the room. “I expect you to listen when I am speaking, Weasley. Do you recall where Mr. Potter informed us we could find a bezoar?”

Weasley was wide-eyed at being called out, and despite this being an answer that was in the preface of their potions book and Calla having just mentioned it, his answer was, “I don’t know.”

“A point will be taken from Gryffindor House for your inattention, Weasley.”

Professor Snape put them into pairs after that and set them to mixing up a simple potion to cure boils. He swept around in his long black cloak, watching them weigh dried nettles and crush snake fangs, criticizing most of the students. When he’d swept by her, he let her know that snake fangs had to be crushed to a powder-fine consistency. He had just stopped to complement Draco’s attentiveness to his horned slugs when clouds of acid green smoke and a loud hissing filled the dungeon. Neville had somehow managed to melt Finnegan’s cauldron into a twisted blob, and their potion was seeping across the stone floor, burning holes in people's shoes. Within seconds, the whole class was standing on their stools while Neville, who had been drenched in the potion when the cauldron collapsed, moaned in pain as angry red boils sprang up all over his arms and legs.

“Idiot boy!” Snarled Professor Snape, clearing the spilt potion away with one wave of his wand. “I suppose you added the porcupine quills before taking the cauldron off the fire?”

Neville whimpered as boils started to pop up all over his nose.

“Take him to the hospital wing,” Professor Snape spat at Finnegan.

He whirled on the rest of the class. “The rest of you – continue working! Unless of course, you like to end up like Longbottom?”

Calla had continued working with Blaise, even as they sat cross-legged on their stools, but the same could not be said of the rest of the class as they cursed about their inattention.

Granger’s cauldron, shared with an unhappy-looking girl with black hair, was an odd shade of puce rather than the proper indigo. Weasley was sharing with a flustered Dean Thomas, and Calla wasn’t quite sure how they’d managed the lemon yellow that their potion turned.

At the end of their double potions class, her and Blaise’s potion was the same shade of indigo as the sample on Professor Snape’s desk. Malfoy’s and Nott’s potion was only a shade off, they probably forgot to count their stirs when Neville’s potion went off.

She took her time packing up, in no hurry to leave while the Gryffindors were pushing each other over in their hurry out the door.

Finally, just as she was leaving at the back of her year mates, Professor Snape called out to her.

“Mr Potter?” Calla turned to look at him, but his back was to her. “Five points to Slytherin for your well thought out answers and preparedness.” She spent the rest of the day with a smile on her face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My favorite line in this was when Calla completely misunderstood Snape’s warning not to bully anyone. I know I’ve read a similar line somewhere, but it was in a time-travel re-do fic where Harry wanted to mess with Snape, and I can’t for the life of me remember the title. I remember reading it and thinking that it seemed like a very Harry thing to do if he was actually sorted into Slytherin and a very Snape thing to do as well.  
> As for the bathroom description, there is a big debate on how the only bath we ever hear described is the prefects’ bath and the only restroom we hear about is Myrtle’s. We never hear how they’re set up, so creative license was used. I did, however, research when plumbing was installed in Hogwarts as well as the original setup of rooms meant for the wealthy and influential and their bathing accommodations and incorporated the initial setup into the 1800 renovation plans.  
> As for the bag being inside Calla’s rooms, Marcus asked the house elves to deliver it.


	9. The Malfoy-Weasley Feud

Calla had never believed that animosity was genetic, as living with Dudley might have her believe, but that was before she was introduced to the Malfoy-Weasley blood feud (or the Weasley-Malfoy, depending on who you asked.) Still, first year Slytherins only had Potions with the Gryffindors, so Calla only had to endure the petty bickering once a week or so. Or at least, it was once a week until they were informed by Farley and Flint that Flying lessons began on Thursday. A class they would share with the Gryffindors.

“Regretful,” she had muttered to Blaise so that Draco wouldn’t hear, “That they would pair the most volatile houses in the most precarious classes.”

She had been looking forward to learning to fly only second to learning Potions.

Blaise chuffed a laugh, a faint smile quirking just the edges of his mouth. “It is a sad day indeed when a first-year shows more sense than adults.” He replied, his lower tone making whispering unnecessary.

She was a little bit jealous of his soft tone.

Compared to Draco, who’s voice was decidedly higher in pitch than even Pansy’s, it was a relief, and Draco certainly loved to talk. With the recent announcement of flying lessons, he had taken to complaining loudly of first-years never getting on the House Quidditch teams and told long, boastful stories that always seemed to end with his narrowly escaping Muggles in helicopters. While he was the only of the Slytherins to actively boast about his exploits, it was unfortunately standard practice in the other houses. Ernie Macmillan of Hufflepuff, Anthony Goldstein and Mandy Brocklehurst of Ravenclaw, as well as both Seamus Finnegan and Ronald Weasley of Gryffindor consistently used the times between classes to regale anyone who listened of their exploits on a broom.

Blaise had quietly assured her that Draco and Weasley, at the very least, were telling tall tales. While it was quite normal for any magical parent to allow some practice before attending Hogwarts, they wouldn’t be left unsupervised to the point that they could go near muggle helicopters and hang-gliders.

“I’m not sure Draco even knows what a helicopter is.” Theo confided at breakfast Thursday morning, his face in a book, seemingly uninvested in Draco’s storytelling, which added embellishments with each telling.

Even the staunchest of Draco’s supporters were very pleased when his most recent telling was interrupted by the arrival of the mail.

Calla had not received a single letter, something many of the Slytherins took note of, of course. Draco was not the only one to receive weekly sweets from home, though he was the most boastful, likely to get a rise from Weasley. Calla couldn’t say it wasn’t working. Weasley would scowl if Draco so much as came into sight. He used to only do so when Draco made a foul remark on his clothes.

There was chatter and excitement from over at the Gryffindor table, and a glance at Draco’s place told her he was likely already on his way over to make trouble.

Blaise snorted when he noticed where she was looking. “Salazar help us survive Flying lessons.”

Theo hummed while Calla laughed.

At three-ten that afternoon, Calla, Blaise, Theo, and the other Slytherins made their way down the front steps onto the grounds for their first flying lesson. It was a clear, breezy day, and the grass rippled under their feet as they marched down the sloping lawns toward a smooth, flat lawn on the opposite side of the grounds to the Forbidden Forest, whose trees were swaying darkly in the distance.

The Gryffindors had yet to arrive, but twenty broomsticks were already laying in neat lines on the ground. Their teacher had yet to arrive despite the brooms having been set up.

The quality of the brooms left much to be desired. Some had twigs sticking out at odd angles, and others had dry, splintering wood that made her reach for the dragonhide gloves she kept in her satchel. Calla had noticed in the shop that they were surprisingly supple, especially for something made with dragonhide, and should work well for flying.

Blaise and Theo had wandered off while she was looking for her gloves. They waved her over when they noticed her looking.

“These ones should do.” Theo told her when she got closer. On closer inspection, these brooms had less errant twigs and fewer splintering cracks along the shaft. The other Slytherins had placed themselves in a way that looked random, but it appeared that that was a thin cover for their strategic positions near the better brooms.

Was it unfair? She didn’t think so. Ten minutes had already passed and the Gryffindors had yet to arrive. This was the one class no one should have trouble finding, and it was no secret that the school brooms were subpar. According to Flint, the school stocked a supply of the Shooting Star brooms, which was the cheapest broom released in 1955, and it was known for losing height and speed over time.

Blaise filled the time with gossip on what Calla had missed this morning. They had all left breakfast before Draco managed to cause trouble, yet Blaise managed to get all the details. Draco, as she had assumed, had gone to start things with Weasley by using Neville as an excuse. Neville had gotten a Remembrall from his gran, a small clear ball filled with smoke that turns red if you’ve forgotten something.

Draco had, of course, snatched the shiny object as soon as he saw it and sufficiently angered Weasley, who had apparently gone red in the face before Professor McGonagall arrived on scene and Draco returned the Remembrall.

Nobody had arrived while Blaise was catching her up, so Theo switched the conversation to broom servicing kits and how they were used to prevent the damage they could see on the school brooms. (Theo was a closeted fan of the Kenmare Kestrels on account of them being an Irish team.)

“You see,” He was saying, just as the Gryffindor’s marched down the sloping hills, “Handle polish does more than just make a broomstick shiny; it seals the wood from damage from the elements. It’s not just a cosmetic product.”

Madame Hooch, the flying instructor, was following close behind the Gryffindors. She had short, gray hair, and yellow eyes like a hawk.

“Well, what are you all waiting for?” She barked once she was close enough to hear. “Everyone stand by a broomstick. Come on, hurry up.”

Calla and the other Slytherins moved next to their chosen brooms, made easier because the Gryffindors were still trudging over.

“Stick out your right hand over your broom,” called Madame Hooch at the front, “and say ‘Up!’”

“UP!” Everyone shouted. 

Calla’s broom jumped into her hand at once, but it was one of the few that did. Theo, Blaise, and Draco’s all rose at a casual pace, showing that they had had prior experience controlling the force the broom rose at. Dean Thomas from Gryffindor looked quite surprised at the force his had risen with, but Hermione Granger’s had simply rolled around on the ground. Neville’s hadn’t moved at all. Perhaps brooms, like horses, could tell when you were afraid, thought Calla; there was a quaver in Neville’s voice that said only too clearly that he wanted to keep his feet on the ground.

Madam Hooch then showed them how to mount their brooms without sliding off the end. Draco had been using the seeker grip exclusively, which was only really supposed to be used for dives where flattening your body was necessary, and he had to be corrected.

“Now, when I blow my whistle, you kick off from the ground, hard,” said Madam Hooch. “Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet, and then come straight back down by leaning forward slightly. On my whistle – three – two –”

But Neville, nervous and jumpy and frightened of being left on the ground, pushed off hard before the whistle had touched Madam Hooch’s lips.

“Come back, boy!” she shouted, but Neville was rising straight up like a cork shot from one of the Dursleys champagne bottles on New Year’s – twelve feet – twenty feet. Calla saw his scared white face look down at the ground falling away, saw him gasp, slip sideways off the broom an –

WHAM – a thud and a nasty crack and Neville lay facedown on the grass in a heap. His broomstick was still rising higher and higher, and started to drift lazily toward the forbidden forest and out of sight.

Madam Hooch was bending over Neville, her face as white as his.

“Broken wrist,” Calla heard her mutter. “Come on, boy – it’s all right, up you get.”

She turned to the rest of the class.

“None of you is to move while I take this boy to the hospital wing! You leave those brooms where they are or you’ll be out of Hogwarts before you can say ‘Quidditch.’ Come on, dear”

Neville, his face tear streaked, clutching his wrist, hobbled off with Madam Hooch, who had her arm around him.

No sooner than they were out of earshot than Draco burst into laughter.

“Did you see his face, the great lump?”

Vincent, Gregory, Pansy, and Millicent laughed with him.

“Shut up, Malfoy,” snapped the Gryffindor of the Patil twins, Calla couldn’t recall her first name.

“Ooh, sticking up for Longbottom?” Pansy mocked. “Never thought _you’d_ like fat little crybabies, Parvati.”

“Look!” said Draco, darting forward and snatching something out of the grass. “It’s that stupid thing Longbottom’s gran sent him.”

The Remembrall glittered in the sun as he held it up.

“Malfoy! Give it here.” Weasley practically growled.

Draco’s smile curled up unnaturally, giving a nasty impression.

“I think I’ll leave it somewhere for Longbottom to find.”

“Ahhh!” Weasley yelled before lunging at Draco, but Draco had leapt onto his broomstick and taken off. He hadn’t been lying, Calla noticed, he _could_ fly well. Hovering level with the topmost branches of an oak he called, “Come and get it Weasel!”

Weasley grabbed his broom.

“ _No!_ ” shouted Hermione Granger. “Madam Hooch told us not to move – you’ll get us all into trouble.”

Weasley ignored her. His face was bright red in anger, and his mouth was drawn angrily, showing teeth in a snarl.

He mounted the broom and kicked hard against the ground, wobbling a little before stabilizing and turning his broom to face Draco, who had yet to lose his grin.

“Give it here!” Weasley repeated. “Or…or I’ll knock you off your broom.”

“Oh yeah?” said Draco, sneering. Calla thought he was right not to be worried. Weasley wasn’t a _bad_ flier per se, but Draco was flying easier with only one hand, the other still holding the Remembrall.

Weasley leaned forward, his broom shooting forward in time with his action, but Draco easily dodged. Weasley turned in a wide circle to face Draco again, but just as he was readying to lunge for the Draco again –

“MESSRS WEASLEY AND MALFOY!”

Professor McGonagall was running towards the gathering of students where both Draco and Weasley were quickly returning to the ground. Draco looked mildly worried, but Weasley had gone pale as a sheet.

“ _Never_ – in all my time at Hogwarts –”

Professor McGonagall was almost speechless with shock, and her glasses flashed furiously, “—how _dare_ you – might have broken _both_ your necks –”

“Professor McGonagall?” She asked.

“Yes, Mr Potter?”

She didn’t like sticking her neck out for Draco when he was bullying, but Slytherins stuck together and they _didn’t_ get caught. No doubt the prefects, or worse, Professor Snape, would find out and he’d get taken to task, but they’d get dragged into it if they didn’t pull him out of it.

She bit her lip and hesitantly asked, “May I explain, Professor?”

The Professor looked startled, but agreed, “Of course, Mr Potter.”

“Well, Madam Hooch had us about to take off, but Neville’s broom seemed to have a mind of its own and flew off and Neville lost his grip and fell. Madam Hooch told us to stay on the ground while she took Neville to the hospital. He must’ve dropped his Remembrall though, because Draco found it in the grass.

“Weasley yelled at Draco to give it back, but I don’t think Draco trusted him to have it because there’s a lot of animosity between the two of them. He said he’d leave it somewhere for Neville instead. Probably in the hospital wing after class or to you in Transfiguration class,” she added.

“It wasn’t his fault, Professor –”

“Be quiet, Miss Patil –”

“But Malfoy –”

“That’s _enough_ , Mr. Weasley. Continue, Mr. Potter.”

“Then Weasley lunged at Draco, but Draco had his broom and flew out of the way. Granger warned Weasley not to get on his broom, but he flew after Draco anyway and said he was going to knock Draco off his broom and flew toward him, but Draco dodged again. Weasley was just about to try again when you showed up, Professor.”

Professor McGonagall turned an icy stare on the Gryffindors and asked, “Is this true?”

“Well, yes, but –”

“But _nothing_! You endangered another student over a petty squabble, and while Mr. Malfoy shouldn’t have been in the air, he was only there to avoid your violent actions.” She chastised. “I am ashamed, Mr. Weasley, you will receive detention and twenty-five points will be taken from Gryffindor for your disregard of a teachers’ instructions and your hostility to a fellow student.”

“ _You’re joking._ ”

It was Dinnertime. Calla had just finished telling Flint what had happened during Flying lessons.

“She fell for that?” he asked. “But McGonagall is notoriously anti-Slytherin – and against her own lion?”

Calla nodded solemnly. “I get the feeling she knew my parents. She mentioned I’ve been slated to attend Hogwarts since I was born, and she keeps on sneaking glances at me when I’m in transfiguration with a really sad look on her face.”

Flint looked awful impressed, especially of how she had twisted Draco’s actions to seem reasonable.

“But the class never got into the air?” He asked and Calla nodded.

“Lessons have been put off, too.” She told him despondently. She had really wanted to learn to fly, but from what she’d heard, they weren’t going to let any on them up in the air for _months_ while they tried to figure out hosting separate lessons because of the _incident_.

Flint, it seems, has also heard this because he offers, “I’d be happy to show you the basics if they haven’t let you up in the air by the end of October.”

“Really?!” She asks.

“Yeah,” he said, and reached out to ruffle her hair. “They’ll probably put off getting Slytherin on account of most of the kids already knowing how to fly. Us prefects have to watch out for the younger years where we can.”

She could feel her cheeks grow warm and thanked him profusely, and he smiled and put another scoop of vegetables on her plate.

Professor McGonagall was right; your house is like your family. At the very least, they were better than the family she’d had up to now. Calla loved her house, even with the occasional smart remark from Draco and the chill of the common room and the way teachers watched them closer than any other student.

If she had gone to Gryffindor, like her parents had, would she have fit in? She looked past the students sitting in front of her to the lion’s table. She could hear them from her spot at the Slytherin table, not really words, but noise all the same.

Probably. All Calla had ever wanted was for some unknown relation to show up and take her away from the Dursleys; all she had ever wanted was an actual family. The Gryffindors were a family, too – a really loud family, but she hadn’t set the bar very high. It might not be as comfortable as the quiet murmurs of Slytherin, but she knew how to adapt, how to survive.

She saw Weasley – Ronald, not any of his older brothers – gesturing wildly while he shoveled food into his mouth. Granger was sat next to a red-haired prefect with her nose in a book, and Neville was—missing.

Calla scanned the rest of Gryffindor and the other tables, but there was no sign of him. Was he still in the hospital? Come to think of it, Draco had never handed over the Remembrall, had he?

The blond was easy to spot as he was leaving the hall. She gave her goodbyes to Flint before hurrying after Draco.

“Draco!” She called to him once she reached the hallway. It was deserted of everyone except Vincent, Greg, and Draco.

Draco looked back, and seeing Calla, slowed his pace until she caught up. “Yes?” He asked.

Vincent moved further to the side to make room for her. She shot him a small smile before joining them fully. “I noticed Longbottom wasn’t in the Great Hall,” she started. “I’d like to return his Remembrall to him in the Hospital wing.”

Draco gave a noncommittal hum. He seemed to be thinking it over. “It surely wouldn’t hurt,” he concedes with a sly smile. He fished the small, marble-sized glass out of a pocket. “Here,” he handed it to her.

That was _surprisingly_ easy. Calla had expected to have to remind him that her excuse to Professor McGonagall had included Draco’s plans to return the Remembrall.

Either way, she supposed. Remembrall in hand, Calla made her way to the hospital wing. Luckily, it was just up the marble staircase right outside the Great Hall.

She pushed her way through the double doors of the hospital to find Neville lying in a bed with white linen sheets, his bag on table beside him. A large platter of items Calla recognized from the feast was in front of him.

“You’re looking better, Longbottom.”

Neville looked up from his steak and kidney pie, surprised. “What are you doing here?”

Calla held up the Remembrall with a smile. “You dropped this when you fell. Thought you might like it back.” She walked over and handed it to him.

“You’re not what I expected.” Neville was looking at the Remembrall when he said this.

“Oh, and what were you expecting?”

“We were supposed to be god-siblings, you know.” Calla froze. “Your mum was my godmother, and my mum was your godmother.”

“No, I didn’t know.” She whispered.

“I shouldn’t know, either” He looked up at her, his blue eyes into her green. “Mum kept a picture,” he told her. “It had Mum and me and Lily and you with all our names, but yours wasn’t Harry.”

Calla imagines her mother, more the idea of a soft voice and green eyes and love, she imagines her having a best friend with Neville’s hair and soft features. She thinks she understands. The people closest to her parents would know. Those that would never betray them.

“I’d like if you called me Neville,” he tells her, and—

Neville hadn’t given her up, he hadn’t betrayed a person he had never met, and she thinks she’d like to earn some of that trust. “It’s nice to finally meet you Neville. My name’s Calla, but everyone seems to call me Harry anyway.”


End file.
